Essex Street fabric store
Maury – honestly – the plaid’s beautiful too . . . the shark-skin . . . take them both.
© Chagall 2014
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Our greatest achievement lies yet in our next encounter
somewhere along this way, I’m told by the same, she advises you
as well, you know this as plain as I;
I tell you nothing new that’s not old,
ancient in fact though we sometimes get lost in our fictions,
twice-told and still surprised!
As many lights that night as there will be bells
from faraway hills, resonant peals of sound and sight
and indigo awash everywhere there is sky or earth or water.
© Chagall 2014
Poetry aspires
and says that
Not unlike
humans
Theme’s
intent
One’s
we
© Chagall 2013
I don’t think she would be insulted at all
if you likened her to a bowl of hot chowder –
just don’t say she went down like one
or something stupid like that,
instead focus on the nourishment
and the satiety.
© Chagall 2013
My mouth probes yours
soft, dry daubs
pulls on Cupid’s Bow
the slow release
of the lower lip
a flue for fires
burned in softer centers
© Chagall 2013
Friday night, Autumn 1969 – Kitchen of a railroad flat, 12th St. off Avenue B, across from 12th St Park
Ruth’s aproned mom, tostones, hot oils, sopa de mondongo, floured curves.
© Chagall 2013
Of course it’s my field
where your horse stands
Snowflakes fry my frozen ground
chill me solely
though you are welcome to stay
if as you travel you recall
all that’s been lost
Time at the rock
and bread at the table
Crumbs at the card game
kissed away
Under blankets
and crisp sheets
Atop the lavender
beneath first snow
With Time
tense and tired
Till
Spring thaw then
Death is . . .
after all
© Chagall 2013
The story of her life,
how she flits
in and out?
Hold that thought,
she’ll be right back . . .
She’s got a thousand eyes
except for two, unlike Impressionists
who have just enough
dots in their shade
© Chagall 2013
An Original Jam from Alphabet City
Carlos Chagall, D. Rivera, Papo C., Eric Greco
She wears different faces for me, primal postures on black surround
a fan-dancer, angles arms and legs, in time she forms tomorrows
less certain than days gone by that certainly seemed more certain
As a human I pray but I’m open
if you think there’s a better way
She’s human too – I’m reminded, her heart beats to break, pink stars in brisk gravity
she’s crushed given time and grace, to love her is so precisely weightlessness
so we hold onto updrafts and breathe, waft about and soar in deep essing swoops
bank steep, Godspeed to the outskirts
cold air, lavender tinder, where the softest touch is all it takes
to let go
© Chagall 2013
Alphabet City 