A pretty tight jam is 1 year old. Hope you have headphones, time, and the inclination to listen. —Carlos
An Original Jam from Alphabet City
Carlos Chagall, D. Rivera, Papo C., Eric Greco
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A little bit less than a full flue open
adjusts my burn just right
© Chagall 2014
Let’s all do this once more with feeling,
avoid the sidesteps askew to the point.
I don’t yet have automata down pat
quite enough to divert my mind away.
© Chagall 2014
Murmuring I can’t distinguish
clearly, the words incanted
more than prayers, I think
perhaps ancient formulae.
© Chagall 2014
I do so want to tell you something,
that will make you reach out
across the light, the page plus the miles,
you’ll recall the moment we felt
despite never meeting, truth is the same time
yet a different face for two people
from the same orb rounding the same star,
or do we just fall steady? I forget
which gravitation I’m in on this go-around,
while you’re about me I twirl in wonder, more
turvy than topsy, surely I will find you somewhere
firmly on ground with a strong sudden urge to take flight.
© Chagall 2014
Let’s bring them all home and put an end to madness. —Chagall
Assume that there are two and a half
million military personnel
in the U.S. forces.
Canada’s border is fifty-five hundred miles,
Mexico’s roughly two thousand,
the general coastline about thirteen thousand.
Let’s say then twenty thousand miles
for one trip around the perimeter
of our great country,
just to make this easy.
I ask a local seven-year old,
who advises me that there are five
thousand two hundred and eighty feet
in a mile
So in total that’s one hundred and five million
six hundred thousand feet
around these United States.
So here’s my plan:
Let’s bring all of the service personnel home,
each and every mother, father, sister, son, brother, daughter, aunt, uncle, partner, wife, husband, sibling in-law, cousin, friend, lover, poet, musician, machinist, laborer, teacher, and the like –
bring ’em all home,
all two and a half million,
and have them then stand a post around that…
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My father dropped lines for a living,
distinguished foul from fair,
white chalk on the greenest of grass,
bounded baseball diamonds, tapered
to a fine point at home, tracing
divergent infinities, right and left field,
I’d join him Saturday mornings, in chilly spring
in early mist, before mid-day suns
would warm and laughter ring,
the pop of ball on leather mitts
rising above the hurrah, higher than towering
flies in golden sky that shine no more
except in the glimmer of my mind’s eye.
© Chagall 2014
I remember pulling her down to calico
starched and unbleached, yet o’ so tender
once more than twice atop the expanse
we sprawled, with nary a gesture save a nod
in the others direction
Save me now, I would save you then
with simple impressions, monographs
painted essential you, I’d sign every one
dedicated to what we christened each day – your being
© Chagall 2014
Sweet Sara
I’m slipping
You have let me go
I am confined forever
In this last grasp
© Chagall 2014
From the low part of the land, in the windows at the crest
indistinct figures dance behind the golden glass lit to music
more imagined than heard, I can fog them with frost from here so
they disappear, how I love my crunch in new-fallen snow,
my back angled, face alee, burrowed in a warm woolen muffler,
a straight-away plus a bend away from the smile of your eyes at the door.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 