To those who don’t get it:
Please don’t hurt us
while we wait.
Especially since,
we wait for you.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
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She, eloquently,
recited his passages,
as he once would have.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Shoots from the hip,
my upstart, upright protegé,
shimmies like that rich chick Kate,
in chin-length bob and skirt to there . . .
no, higher.
She’s pleased to make
your acquaintance,
bacon, eggs, dry martinis,
your day, you come. Just ask . . .
nicely.
Charleston flapper, sequined queen,
quite a quazy wady . . .
like Katie.
Okay. Oh, hey!
Whatever happened
to K?
Kept going at it
till they swept her away,
off her feet, her game.
Keep hoping she comes back . . .
kinda liked her.
Likewise Bobbie, I’m sure.
I’ll leave you two,
call if you need . . .
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
The streets smell like tar, chicharon, mofongo, wafts down alleys,
there on the early night air, linger tolls of the day’s end whistles
just audible, cresting the din, a halo,
diffuse, rainbow droplets in a peacock sprawl, fanned
about the hydrant sprays, suppressed by garbage can covers
to let Mr. Softee, fly chicas pass.
The old men play domino, slap them hard on formica tables,
remember tropics before the storm, when salt air veiled
tiny people in perpetual mourning, abuelito working hard with his hands, to push,
pull, polish, and grind, waiting for the night, the right time and way, to say
I’m sorry, it’s all there is, without knowing that it never was.
Nylon string guitar player on a stoop fingerpicks love songs in minor keys,
streetlamp out in front flickers wildly, buzz sparks, dies, leaving her
in hollow reckoning, approaching night, enhances the quality of her reverb,
at least for a moment, small there at the base, pulled steady upward by canyon effect, winds
whip, frenzy ascends to the rooftop, finds the blue hang above the gray,
catches currents that carry to the bridges, spanning then and now,
once and someday, care and neglect, replenish and die.
A lone wolf howls as she flamencos, throws her heart open,
twirled in creased cape, velour for sure, tenor from the isla way smooth
on glissando, hits high notes behind closed eyes, drunken breath, in a fog
that hovers mid-street, a single story above the gutter,
omniscient, watches the village grow, bled along its edge,
cheap madras, raindrops run on palm,
suspended at the broad tips, puff, grow, gradual engorge, burgeon,
burst to refresh, sere lips, dry eyes.
From the fire escape the world is one step removed. I’m a Capulet in my prime, Tybalt’s uncle,
forever pensive, resolute in steadfast impression of myself, a cold rock on a hot night,
the air brakes of city buses on the avenues, my line of sight continuous, east to west,
the cacophony of good night kisses, late night spats, the audible REM of people dreaming while awake, a symphony without maestro, a masterpiece without sympathy, a sterile narcotic, the opiate, the people, the tension, the tensile strength of the cables that hold it aloft exceed the spec, so easy to overlook the speck unless it’s dead center on the lens, looms large like the shadow of iguanas cast on walls of caves by candlelight, by firelight, at this focal point, from this vantage, late in the evening, when the day is lost, simple people scurry, gathering what they may, in the fleeting hours of day, to laugh their lives away.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Slapped, popped, miffed.
Slipped, pooped, missed.
Slept, peeked, mist.
Spent, packed, must.
Spilled, piled, mauled.
Spoilage, pillage, mileage.
Sparrows, pillows, hedgerows.
Persimmons, marshmallow fluff.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
It suddenly stopped?
She could explain, given time,
but you don’t let her.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Hello.
I am not writing about you.
I am not writing about anyone, let alone anyone you might know.
I am vamping, riffing, making it up on the fly.
A matador working the cape, entangling the horns as they come.
I am a romantic, a raconteur, a fabulist.
I parry in rhythm and rhymes, in sound, guttural, enunciated.
I do not know you, dear follower. You do not know me.
I do not know me. If anything, I write about the people I know in flesh and blood.
I am inspired by those who have been at my side for my lifetime.
They are here with me now, living the day-to-day, the grind, with love and commitment.
We sweat, laugh, sometimes hysterically until we cry, aching good, chest to chest, cheek to cheek.
Your comments suggest you think I am alone on this planet; au contraire, my life is bohemian rich.
We gypsies take care of us gypsies. Our ladies take care of us very well, thank you.
We are surrounded by generations of love; we partake of sage offerings to make us wise and wired.
Trust me. If I have never met you except in passing here on WordPress, in this blogosphere,
then you are not my motivation. Please do not delude yourself otherwise.
I write for me. I write for her, and him.
I do not write for, nor about, you.
If by chance the words coming off of the page, speak to you very specifically,
convince you that they could only be meant for you, well then, welcome to Poetry.
Our music, like our poetry, is for us. Some of these tunes were written very long ago.
They are written with very specific people and places in mind.
Alas, you are not among those.
Reality check, please.
Hello.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
The dancers’ marks are spotted,
glow in the dark,
exes on stage,
blue like stars burn hot.
She’s in the back row left,
a second in the recital,
but she’s perfect in her execution,
in expressing the step,
heart, line, and sinker.
Sexy beyond her age.
It’s obvious she’s thought a lot about this dance.
Voguing and stepping, in her own world, a private reverie,
her face caught in stage light, fine boned and captive,
for the moment, timeless.
She bangs the rhythm like I do in my seat,
catching the upbeat and-a two
with a shoulder shrug,
more subtle than hips.
I can convey as much with a nod,
and hold – three – four.
Kiss you on the downbeat, and twirl away in stealth,
leaving you guessing, what the f…
before the bridge.
I’ll go it solo if you are not along for the ride.
Your’re either in on it or out.
At this point in time, I need someone wholly committed.
Someone willing to break from the pack,
do a funky two-step unlike any previously seen,
without regret or self-consciousness,
and revel in the devil-may-care what the hell
any y’all think –
who gives a flying rat’s ass –
as long as we got we, it’s all
oh so absolutely good,
can’t nada be wrong.
Go loco with me baby.
Yell into the abyss with me.
Play pinball, bounce among stars, tilt at worlds,
at windmills, my Dulcinea.
Hold me, love me,
long into the night,
beyond the time when most would think sufficient.
I need long nurturing.
I need to be convinced, not mildly placated.
I need the long haul, the real deal,
the essential, the life dance,
the primal, Eden on the lips,
embraces that never stop, gardens in full bloom, all the time,
marking celestial passing.
I despise aftermath.
I hate interlude.
I just want constant flow, perpetual give and take,
riffing on the now,
the wonder of what’s here, and we in it.
Be me being you be me.
I want to wrap myself in the musk of you,
disappear into oblivion,
like a child prone on the back seat,
at night en route to home from the carnival,
windows rolled turn, to allow night air,
to circulate, while streelamps dance
in the reflection of rear window glass,
and aged melodies play out in AM,
way past midnight, way past my bedtime.
Hold me baby. Be my blanket buddy.
Heard there’s a storm brewing; cuddle with me under cotton sheets
alongside open windows,
while the storm howls,
and the rain blows in.
Young dancer, stay young.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Morning, atop a large rock,
a stone lily pad
in the middle of the stream,
a team-span wide.
Cold waters lap at the edges,
while one can ride dry,
at the high and round rump.
I’m there in perfectly old,
tattered blue-wool pullover,
weighted right against
the vigor of this new day.
How wonderful to have
so much morning remaining
to while away.
Dense clusters of small gnatty flyers
dance in ancient patterns,
in the vee-rays of early sun,
radiant light, pervasive heat,
waves in mirage, they flutter there,
bursting from vernal pools.
Rainbows used to dance here,
leave small wakes, glide on eddies,
do backstrokes, with no one watching.
Masterful puppeteer of lightweight test,
set dry flies still,
perfectly still.
With but the slightest
tremor, concentric break of the surface,
from the rainbow’s vantage.
Just enough to stir curiosity,
a sniff, a poke,
enough to spring the snap.
Nothing sadder than a rainbow in mid-air,
regretting prior impulse.
The change is sudden, inevitable,
decisive.
Snow on Battenkill
falls in crunches,
bunches in feet to yards
high, the wisteria that bough low to the banks,
shaggy, warm under all the cold,
lilac tongues out panting,
with winter body heat,
home to dead butterfly larvae;
dome holds the sound in,
the sound out;
you can walk anywhere,
the terrain is level,
white and wet.
Though not witnessed by anyone or anything,
I left footprints in November,
in the carry along the north rise,
that held their shape and depth,
through March.
I look forward to final frost,
to clear and distinct birthing,
of all that is,
there ever was.
The future is merely supposition.
Isn’t it? The ice, the same as the dew.
I would rather choke
on the freezing waters
filled with silt from the moving,
running bottom,
than trapped in the upper layers,
locked frozen in time.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Please see here for the original Battenkill
By myself, talking to myself again,
the spirit moves me to tongues, jibberish,
shot from the hip, to some point, encircling,
a knee jerk, a spasm, catatonia,
asleep atop a tightwire. Tympani?
Are those really steel drums that are playing?
Or is it just the hum of song machines,
there behind the walls? The underground trains
speed, fluorescent murals, painted blacklight
tunnels that rocket to bright midday sparks.
Hot; starched curtains, white; edged lemon cotton.
Key lime pie and peaked, sweet meringue rosettes.
Life is easy in the sun; blood orange
juices run the length of your inner arm.
The parrot also blabbers jibberish,
straight from the beak, so to speak, turns a phrase
clean as a whistle or a pirate song.
I wash your arms in clear, fresh, cold water.
Stickiness dissolves, your limbs are refreshed,
renewed, invigorated, and christened.
These streets are ancient; the clay is primal.
The sunlight is primordial. The stars
are the reason for the day, for being.
Raison d’etre. The way it’s to be.
“Marcello!” In the fountains, once again.
Your place has large sculpted window boxes,
arcs, smooth plaster, your own personal asps;
so much fun to kiss in rooms well tended,
in classic southerly light, long lean rays,
from ceiling to floor, in lofts in Paris,
light caught in seams of wood planks, sock-varnished,
colors ride steamed mist, swarms of bees take hold,
so much space between me and the thing seen,
which is you, grace and splendor, at its peak,
where the oxygen is too thin, miles high.
You can gasp all you want, you still can’t breathe.
When you mistake up for down, more than once,
is it time to buy champagne by cases?
Accelerate the deterioration.
Kill brain cells in droves, fly ’em to the moon.
There’s a wind that blows when you’re not around,
scented of nectar suckles and honey,
combs of thick syrups, agave, sugars,
lustrous caramels, burnt deep sienna,
It rains and lifts the mocha, brew of loam,
rich in mineral, organic matter.
You’d be proud to be associated.
Everyone agrees, nothing but wonder.
Smells that evoke another time and place.
Melodious aromas shadowbox.
Mardi Gras and everyone is elsewhere,
despite being right here, smack dab in it.
I am so sorry to have to do this.
i capture the light, a strand from my lips,
small fibers connecting there to her own.
Not yours. There’s something wrong; I feel feint, spent.
It’s another earth, I’m so sure of it.
It’s that other me, I’ve kept under wraps,
a subtext, a prelude to sanity,
an idiot in the making. Save me.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 