Here’s the dilemma:
yours is a question of trust,
mine’s about ethic.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
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We . . . eternities
stretch – out beyond to both ends . . .
are the ellipses.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Don’t let it fool you,
the moment rides forever;
you are just the stop.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Sands are cooler this time of day,
evening shore’s spongy underfoot,
refreshes the soles on up.
My towel skirts me,
hula at the waist, a tuck-knot,
long, cool cotton sways,
massages me, naked thighs.
I buy a coco-rum-nut at the hut,
torches burn, leave a larger than usual tip,
fly chica behind the bar
rewards me with a double-floater-shot in return.
Salt air leaves me heady, nostalgic,
for some primal scene,
saline roots, when hot springs sprang,
before speech found its way to our tongues.
Duet up the beach plays Jobim,
he, nylon acoustic
she, silky throat and lovely neck.
Samba for lovers,
smell of herb
from under umbrellas.
The rum is good,
arouses my caramel,
makes me thicker,
I glide, boogie board on bare feet.
After the verse, at the coro,
I step toe to heel, to toe to heel,
dancing like no one’s watching,
’cause no one is.
My ears pop suddenly,
the rush of knee-high waves
swooshes crisp, tens of decibels louder,
foam about me touches my towel hem.
I am doubly alive, in overdrive,
oxygen never smelled so good,
clean, sweet, perfect pleasure,
just breathing in, keep breathing in . . .
Back at the hut, I double-up rum-nuts,
bum a cigarette from the fly chica,
who lights me up and smiles.
I do a paso dobla,
in a rum numb,
up and down the beach,
dancing, someone’s watching.
Queres dançar comigo?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Brief stretch of free time,
this three-day weekend
wells up inside of me.
I seek to savor each moment,
from Friday’s sunrise to Sunday’s set,
every tick in between,
with you.
I will time to stop,
flow back to the source,
relive Friday’s glorious morning,
over and over and over . . .
I will hold you there
in my heart’s amber,
as I’ll hold myself
accountable for prescience.
The moment and you
blur till one
whole tone sustains.
Freedom’s breath fills me,
circulates inside me,
breaks the skin barrier,
to meld me with the air,
carries me aloft.
I spread-eagle
atop cross-currents,
the backroom of existence,
careful not to tangle
in the delicate webs
that are spun there.
I’m a torn balloon,
floating on tattered frame,
broken spine.
Free,
if only for the moment.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Thousands of strange lights,
an armada of seers,
protecting the point.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
There’s no one for me who quite matches up,
the moons have ceased to align for a while.
There’s no one who can catch me then keep up,
they wax when I wane, they rock when I roll.
I can guess the card almost every time,
didn’t you just pull that from up your sleeve?
Stone with me, share blankets under moonlight,
tell me the stars are not that far away.
Let’s get off the grid, shoot them all the bird,
witness each full moon on the calendar.
Instead I’m surrounded by non dreamers,
those who are deluded by what is real.
Son-of-a-bitching-moronic-buzz-kills,
pissing on my clouds, stinking up heaven.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
You said you were my friend
Sang that it’s really true
I found out though today
It wasn’t so. Surprise!
I write ballads for you
Now that you’re underground
You’ve become my target
Poetic obsession
Lorelei asks for you
Remembers better days
Still wears bells and flowers
Lives with Hope at the fair
Riding the tilt-a-whirl
Biting candy apples
Sweet red crust sticks to teeth
Tastes like sugar berries
Maybe just one more chance
I realize that’s crazy
It gets harder to find
Than to lose nowadays
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I am becoming more intrigued with form,
yesterday, jazzy verse just suit me fine.
I’m slow now, I take patience with the line,
take time to build, weather better the storm.
The word deluge that had become my norm,
drowned me, submersed my head in a sound brine,
lacked any meaning, for lack of trying.
My madness now will be more uniform.
I’ve never embraced you in silhouette,
though we once were both bathed in indigo.
Your every movement is a pirouette.
I cling to the rock face, cold vertigo,
like that time I felt on the parapet.
Now I’m ready to leap, if you say so.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Chance, fling, sing, dance,
Prance, wing, sting, romance,
Someday, maybe, anyway,
baby, I’ll say, we’ll see.
Sonnet line-endings I will never use,
Petrarchan, octave and sestet pairing,
so much to gain, ergo plenty to lose,
when poets go astray, lose their bearing.
It’s easy to just settle, stop caring,
take to hypnotics, or just plain old booze,
get caught in sun spots, in solar flaring,
perish in flame before paying the dues.
So I buckle down and get serious,
edit and rewrite, until it’s just right,
like courting a young and elusive Miss,
who smells like lavender, emits sunlight.
Move quickly now, inch in to steal a kiss!
Better yet? Wait till the cover of night.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 