I refuse to look at the sky tonight –
same old story – planes, dead stars, pitted moons,
motivates me to write those timeworn tunes
to the lovelorn, pines, how the heart takes flight,
metaphysical crap, dark versus light,
or lighthearted fare about babes and June
frolics among flowers, the springtime bloom,
blessed angels on high, lost souls burning bright.
Instead this evening I plan to ascend,
rise from the planet when bells toll midnight,
leave earth behind (I will miss you old friend)
my direction is up, two lefts, then right.
When you ponder the sky this eve you’ll see
the constellation Chagallus – it’s me!
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
The melody haunts
on the offbeat,
my heart's pulse.
Sad, but hopeful,
maybe.
The fuzzy reeds,
breath through tenors,
piano and bass
both upright shake
sand castles loose
at the turrets.
Doubtful brushes swirl on snares,
precise in ambiguous beat,
more color,
than anything electric.
A young girl,
neon green bikini,
samba prone on her lounger
under ear
buds, to her own muse,
or maybe disposable pop.
Surf rolls.
Hear that oh
so soft brush on cymbal?
Grab it, now hold it,
now fade.
Chicheme, March 2013
Alphabet City 