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At The Drive-In

May 17, 2013

We all know someone
who knew someone
who was once “once bitten, twice burned,”
no three-charm, went down,
way down, for the count.

Daffodil daze,
long ago summer,
when we’d samba soft,
swept an upstate girl,
who smelled like lemon,
cloudy sweet, beechnut,
she glided on sand.

We’d kiss, I’d open my eyes before she,
it just never failed – surprised she
would smile, seeing me
again for the only time.

Outside Vails Mills,
there’s a drive-in
long closed,
used to show Cinemascope,
where girls in pink cashmere
took my breath away
long before intermission,
and again when the credits ran.

Cars pulling through the gate,
2 tickets and sodas in hand,
waves of mosquito white-light
from the projection booth,
color-soaked 2D flickers,
cheap speaker hooked
there on the window rolled down,
at the very start,
a Saturday night picture show.

Tags: Arts, Business, Cinemascope, Drive-in theater, Movies, Projection booth, Theaters, United States, Vails Mills

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Belated Mother’s Day Poem

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May 14, 2013

This is what she said to me:

And when I go, and when it rains,
that will be me.

Whenever the day
is travel and arrive,
and it’s pouring most of the way,
then stops?

That’s me.

That feeling of if only
the sun would come out
to dry the mist
from shallow puddles?

The sweep of wipers
keeping the road ahead clear,
frenzied, then fast, then feint,
then off, the windows dry,
and cracked,

to let in light,
on waves of cool air
riding from the breakers?

Yep, that’s me.

For Maria Rose Chagall

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Petrichor

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May 12, 2013

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Hevenus Called It Petrichor

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I run and slide
on scuffed black shoes
worn smooth on friction-
less wood, like a hover-
board,

slit through the curtain
drop dead in the spot,

in the foot-
lights loose-
hipped, baggy-
pant, vulgar

drunk enough
to know that
soon I’ll need another,

to pace it,
let’s face it,

sometimes ain’t enough,

to the edge,
lovely dance
bald ladies,
body-lingo,

candle-
la-
bra-
less-
la-la.

touch it,
so hot,
they sizzle.

When Wok gets hot,
she drizzles.

Sounded like you said that your name was Anastasia?
Taurus.
You?
Have you ever screamed in vain?

Too deep.

Three-deep
at the bar,
in the sea,
amoebae;

so easy to tap into that,
but why?

should I buy
another,

or just call it?

On the street, I walk
in the gutter, on cobble-
stones laid,
centuries ago, bye,
a man long dead,

at a time when you could see
clear across Manhattan,
river to river.

Night-sweet,
early-cool,
morning air blows through;
stripteased broken bottles
to soon cede right-of-way
to incense,
and cleansing sweep.

What did Hevenus call it?
Indeed: petrichor.

Tags: clubbing, Dance, Hudson Street, Manhattan, Petrichor

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Weren’t You?

Filed under: Music Set To Poetry — 6 Comments

May 11, 2013

Just this side of spoken word.

Sebastien Greco, vocals and rhythm
Carlos Chagall, guitars
DD Rivera, bass
Papo Cuadrado, percussion

Words & Music by Carlos Chagall and Sebastien Greco

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A Sordid Flavors

Filed under: Poetry — 4 Comments

I am carved space,
at the very end,
a leaf node
of multiverse.

A box of assorted truffles,
variation on a theme,
a bouquet of balloons,
white light cracking
prisms,
continuous color,
overtone in the hum,
that suddenly can
stop.

Cinnamon myrrh
to anoint,
laid out on hot rock;
vibraphones on black velour
ascending minor intervals,
I hold stripped electrical wires,
and stand in shallow pools,
basil and lavender on my tongue.

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Haiku For Elise

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Hers, sun-streaked henna.
Seven A.M. rise, breakfast.
Biscuits, sweet butter.

Lemon sunlight soaks
kerchiefs, atop bell towers.
Tentative breezes.

Salted, ocean air.
Early morning carillons.
Somber atoning.

Odd-tone harmonies.
First mists, early melodies.
Stark white, strewn about.

Clean, cold, broken glass.
Timeless, low skies, clouds, throb teal.
Wilds of the wisp.

Nestled, starched linens.
A young girl with her father,
gaze up at heaven.

Leap from the tower.
Hand in hand, en gravitas.
Parachutes open.

Nothing but happy.
Endings come while comings go.
Nothing shall remain.

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L’esprit de l’escalier

Filed under: Poetry — 4 Comments

Yep,
maybe,
just not sure.

A shrug,
quick exit,
the sound of hurried footsteps,
the closing bedroom door.

I miss you already,
the moment that could have been,

had we actually reached
across the divide
to the other,

instead talked
of the persistent hum,
our backdrop,
figure and ground,

of blood, throbs,
the beat, our hearts,
sweet air, the glimpse
of the holy.

But instead,
we parted,
to remember on the staircase,
the things we should have said.

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A Goodnight Song For Raj

Filed under: Poetry — 3 Comments

I am a witness to that late morning,
you on the other side of the creek bank,
in black and white.

How old are you there, maybe 10?
What a perfect age to be,
the first of double-digit
years.

Rough gabardine trousers
and cable-knit cardigan,
so dapper really,
atop the crushed rock,
that the old man bagged
for a penny a load.

I prop the photo
up in front
a bare bulb
and cup my hands
to the sides of my eyes,
to blinder my view
from ambient distraction.

The sun-hot white
light, 200 watts,
excites the photons
captured there
from that day
on the silver of the film,
swells the sounds and smells,
squeezes barge horns,
hair tonic, damp wool,
chalk and limestone,
heavy leather shoes slipping on rock,
children yelling in play,
in quick scurry over quarry,
racing to be king at the top.

You turn to me
and doff your cap,
a so-long from long ago,
black hair rumpled and wild
blue eyes smiling.

Ci vediamo.

Tags: Newtown Creek, Rajah

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Nap

Filed under: Poetry — 4 Comments

My feet upon the mantle,
toasty about a foot
from the lacy steel
curtain drawn across
the face of the fire.

Orange flames dance wildly,
flailing hands and fingers
jitterbug, hallelujah.

I succumb,
exhaust the day,
hypnotic brick,
shadows, column heat , , ,

Running water,
harmonic crystals,
surf, persistent breath,
mouths huffing mists,
lenses wiped clean,
soft tissue.

Low-flying girls with kites
run on beaches,
hug endless horizon, pastels
flirt, smiles passed over,
soft kisses on shoulder freckles,
lost in the sweet center,
gardenia, coconut oil.

My toes dig in
deep, hot sand,
my eyes close tight,
the sun coaxed
protozoa to the saline,
behind the ray-bans,
a dance of shadows
there on the inside:

a pas d’une,
a pantomime,
jitterbug,
crazy hallelujah,
flailing violently
backward,
then awake,
but not now.