Dear, at times existence disorganizes itself
galaxies and all, not always for the better
often wreaks sane ways we cannot fathom
and a single feather is all that’s kept
aloft in the dying winds
Invisible weft on which we weave
new order
© Chagall 2014
Nights I stare up the chimney flue
to marvel at the square of stars
cordoned off there in my view
at the long end of the draw
of the red-brick tunnel
the cube of heaven
before me up there
always measures
two by two
by forever
© Chagall 2014
Those who love love-lost
slowly drown glub-glub
mouth-to-mouth
kisses can
resuscitate
Clear!
© Chagall 2014
I stare out the window
at others staring wonder
where everyone has gone
The world awaits
children who run under her tapping foot
careful to time
the rise – now quickly . . . before the fall
If I wait too long
till closing time I get to rush
the darkened aisles just a step
ahead of failing lights
And for what,
a cartful of constellations?
© Chagall 2014
The rain brings scents so wash-away
They defy time, carry to and fro
Small doses of memory, others and ours
I inhale drops sharply, penetrate high and deep
To a point over my head from where
I triangulate my whereabouts, abandon my wits
Rabid in the downpour
Baptized a pseudonym handpicked to avoid
Final reckon, I despise the gavel’s sound
On my inner ear, fine cilia at risk
Befallen to the sound shock of the block
The inevitable shouts, nothing I know can stop that flow
A cloud rappeler, I dangle my solitude
A soliloquy, a carbon piñata too often tethered than not
Wound taut on thin wire, release me
Let me spin
© Chagall 2014
1
Transparent glass birds
fly wing-long into the rocks
trill ere they shatter
2
Hymns for ice warblers
wisps of song fill endless day
harmony so dear
© Chagall 2014
On the underside of love
one heart aches
for a second chance
concedes instead
to halve
© Chagall 2014
White noise
not a little but
a lot of static
a yard of broken glass, where old hearts
lie as bases for games
we play and we slide
into home where we sleep
unaware that we sleep, in any sense
of the word we vow
to uphold the word
and the world is no better for having spun
its yarns
strangle
but keep us warm where there’s need
to sleep with one, two, three eyes
open, dear one
dearest one, the purest
of pure form aspire
to one day inspire, be
all of the days
we settle for less
no more
© Chagall 2014
Haven’t seen much grass lately, waiting for the thaw. Have a great weekend. —Chagall
Love on
the rocks can be
very painful, she said
wouldn’t you rather make love on
the grass?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
My mind peeks out, seeks air, so sad
under blankets. Thoughts pop as geysers arise
entangled, grasped straws if I choose
to embellish unbounded horizons under low ceilings
so dead certain that’s all there is, all that will never be
again, this time slowly I am the clouds, fast
to set out without intent to come in or down
nor at all.
Fogbound and holy, baffled unlucky in love
unveiled this final hour, an instant before
all fades to black on wistful remains,
too much hurt to call it a day so we name her instead
Melancholia. Inside me my memories melt and fade
to unnamed stars that confuse the way
and the poetry’s wrong to herald these end times.
Grips loosen, tugs turn to slack, leaving no tether or hope,
I relinquish my heart as I spiral away.
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 