A ten-finger bundle of oregano,
freshly harvested, tied in coarse twine,
hangs from a drying ring,
just below the wind chimes.
Unusually strong winds for such a hot day,
tousle the bushy-head lavender.
That scent is Sara,
in starched white smock
and little else,
visible until she descends
down the overlook.
I run to follow her,
slowed by the stuck porch door,
to finally gaze at her from the ridge,
for a while, unobserved,
she dances about the calypso orchids.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
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 perimeter,
one of them every forty-two feet,
less than two first downs,
less than a sprint to first base,
about double the distance of the three-point line,
two-thirds the distance from the blue line to the net.
My name is Carlos Chagall, and I approve this post.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Search out the tyrants,
for the sake of the union.
Why not start right here?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Kaua’i ‘O’o,
pacific honey eaters,
extinct, there’s no more.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Lazy birds sing what sound to be questions,
small inquisitions, diminuendo, trills in five-eighths time,
while hurrahs of wind rush the dense canopy of their home,
like waves on sand.
Erase traces of what used to be.
Beyond, I hear loggers, large machines, mechanical chorales spun,
in odd reverberant Om, mantras for flat-felled forests.
Erase traces of what used to be.
I rush the treeline, run insanely,
unable to draw enough air to support the bellow I envision,
the weight of the howl I want to import, the reply I want to scream,
to the wood pigeon, the grand thrush,
the paradise parrot, the heath hen,
to the parakeet, the laughing owl,
the island rail, the piopio,
to the Kaua’i ‘O’o,
the grebe, and the oystercatcher . . .
My chest heaves, uncontrollable gasps,
like a mourner in the front row,
my eyelids gummy, thick strands of hot tears,
sun-waves diffracted, rainbows sheared on my optic nerve.
I purse my lips and find the bird call within me,
I sing a soulful lament, run arpeggios clean
without glissando, a call to flee,
to fly away, to find places that we cannot find.
But my song is lost to the world of sound around me,
to the crescendo that approaches rapidly, the steady march, a goose step:
Erase traces of what used to be.
Erase traces of what used to be.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Sebastien Greco – vocals
Carlos Chagall – guitars
Dede Rivera – bass
Papa Cuadrado – percussion
What’ll you have?
I’ll take a Scarlett Johansson, a Liv Tyler, and a Linda Fiorentino . . .
no make that an Annabella Sciorra.
Lettuce, tomato?
No, nothing on them.
To go or for stay?
For here; I’ll eat them here.
Okay, number 15.
Oh, and a Kirstie Alley to go please, extra cheese, extra mayo.
Pickle?
Sure, why not. And throw in extra napkins.
© Chicheme, 2013
My butt’s blistered, sliding down bannisters,
to avoid the ladies on the stoop,
who sit with their skirts hiked-up three stories,
when a basement flat would suit them better.
Johnny pump sprays to cool off the hot streets,
we go full gush here, none of them mist caps
that the city would want that we should use,
I mean – this is the ghetto man – you know?
Being serious, some kids go naked,
right here on the street, Eleventh near B,
(where the Shower House was, you remember?)
as if this was paradise or something.
You know who you can trust when the pump’s on,
you know who your boys are, girls know the same,
it’s those who don’t spray you when you pass by,
the ones who let you go and keep you dry.
I fly up the stoop, I near pull a groin,
Las antiguas who sit there grab at my ass,
playful, like those secret aunts tucked away,
say goodnight my young prince, ‘sta mañana.
© Chicheme, 2013
A tear wells
– hangs –
falls
rides a cheekbone
down
to
the
chin
falls again
in mid-air
to rest finally
on soft pile
for a moment
then gone
in thin air
just a little bit
of salt
remains
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I’m not leaving here,
not until we hit sublime;
put up some coffee.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 