I fall in love
too often for I mistake sorrow
for the amorous
Perhaps it’s my sense
of being atop the chain
striving to deliver the lonely
their fair due
So I would die in your place
loving you more than myself
mistakenly standing
the world on its end
Chagall 2015
On my back barely beneath water,
the soft sand molds me to form,
I’m dense, settled in with full gravity,
heavy human-molten, I dare myself to breathe
in the liquid as at birth my lungs
accustom to the wet, I relax accepting
this will end soon, I smile
at diffracted rays of sun, the final light
I will see this time around; this drowning
is not so hard, it’s more a state of mind.
Chagall 2015
Happy Friday. I don’t know whether to be serious, or to party. So I seriously party. Happy Long Weekend. My vote in 2016 goes to the candidate who will make weekly 4-day weekends our national norm. Love & Peace. —Chagall
Paris underground, got to get above
to breathe in colored light and rain,
somewhere the girl with the doe’s eyes emits scents
when she’s warm again, but for now the metro is too hot.
The last drag on a night as it nears
dawn, I retain my poise even though I shuffle
and carry myself contemplative, in the rush of early stars,
late tears, departing planes, misted red tail lights.
I can see the flicker, a thousand cycles per second
impressions to strobe, so I dance and pulse intentionally
out of time in order to preserve the macabre, the long spindle
of my spine held erect in this samba, tendrils limber vines.
I bow best in tuxedo, she curtsies in gown, with spit-shine shoes
and perfect air waltzed down the stair rail, shined baluster
on which we glide so gingerly, how I embrace her at the landing
night lamps hushed…
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Just jiggle your eyes up and down
like you swing when you sway when you dance
Bilingual so cunning we lip-sync till vibration booms flows
like monsoons in a trance
butterflies flutter by
hmm . . . wonder why?
rub-a-dub scrub in the tub small circular backstrokes in front
more nimble then able my horses they fly, saddle one babe bubble-up.
Chagall 2015
Instinctively she knew
the dholavira symbols
were incorrectly ordered,
she goddess of the Indus Valley.
Chagall 2015
With certainty I sense what’s timeless
so therefore I am, aren’t I?
It’s a light that shines forever,
a tone with no break for interval.
It’s the moment of you, the thought of you,
the underbelly of you upon my shoulders.
Within that light play fine shadows, disturbed
branches windblown in time.
The doppler of the carousel horses rise then fall
round and rise then fall again.
It is this mere one lifetime with you,
the incessant farewell of moments.
At any time you’ll be here.
At any time you’ll be gone.
Uncertainty senses this timeless
alone, aloft with no tether.
Chagall 2015
Happy reblog Friday. I like this one, though no one else did when originally posted in June, 2013. I consoled myself then by telling myself that everyone was on vacation. Love & Peace. —Carlos
Somebody’s cut the line –
damn it, I dozed!
I’m rising way too fast,
this is not good.
I have no rudder to steer,
no weight to hold me to earth.
Wild careen across cloudscape,
sideways then up then sideways and up.
A monstrous downdraft deals a concussive blow,
stops the ascent dead in its rise,
propels me for a moment into the envelope of the balloon,
barely missing the flames.
My crown-lines appear staked to nearby clouds,
but I know that can’t be.
I stabilize with open jets of whisper burners,
aglow in night-blue sky.
I have no way back down,
except to plummet, finally fall.
But instead, I simply dangle,
cautious not to breathe.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
When she was a child we played a game
we pretended to be high on a cliff at the edge
losing grip on our footing we’d plummet
down off the bed as if from Everest
at the last minute grabbing hands in mid-air
in outstretched rescue every sinewy muscle
straining to hold onto life. She writes
that it’s readied her well for the fight,
she loves me, it’s time to let go.
Chagall 2015
Sound as light
upon blond lashes,
breath in a whisper
punctuates consonants
softly on eardrum cilia.
Such ticklish fancies.
Chagall 2015
I miss the suspense – that delicious hour, sometimes a week –
of waiting for my photos.
Chagall 2015
Alphabet City 