sex sweat smoke beat
dance sex sweat smoke
beat dance sex sweat
smoke beat dance sex
sweat smoke beat dance
sexy sweaty smoky beat.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
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My favorite bistro’s
djangolicious: les nuages –
sex sweat smoke beat dance.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
सिद्धार्थ गौतम बुद्ध
Delicate mango,
pink, sweet fruit drips, wet nectars,
she most Awakened.
Young Bimbisara
hums saturnine melodies,
his head on her breast.
Puffed gulab jamun,
her lips, tasty cardammon,
my Amrapali.
सिद्धार्थ गौतम बुद्ध
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
You knew all along,
I wanted out of the rain,
to dry beside you.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
New people, just born,
at sea in sound and color,
each touch brings wonder.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
It’s been said
love’s accents are all that remain,
the patois of paradise.
The bloodrush, quick pulse,
nuance, inflection,
when spirits soar.
But now there are no words.
Every way back
to you is blocked.
Halls that lead to nowhere:
the shady corners
of your maze.
I shout your name
from under the canopy,
ancient fronds.
Cool pools lap,
the sole reply
in chill morning.
Haze about my ankles
swirls and spirals me up,
through the thicket.
Aloft,
I search about the mist,
but find I’m no less lost,
despite this vantage.
I sense
I am
imperishable.
I return to my native seat
when the music stops,
sure to find you there,
but mistaken.
I am alone
on the edge that lies ahead,
eternal as the road behind.
So strange to live forever?
Stranger still
that we were at all.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Radiation bathes the day
golden. Tiny particles,
outnumbering grains of sand,
accelerate along unseen highways,
across everywhere,
umbilici tethered to forever,
a chorus of Doppler,
coming and going,
come and go.
Singular, din
resolves to dulcet,
harmonics, hold steady,
carve out hollows, joyous peals,
unwavering.
I find her there,
in the overtones,
at perfect multiples of myself,
in the cool shadows,
of the old elms,
our backs to the sun,
inside the heat,
the inferno, the hydrogen ball,
screams at a billion degrees,
spits photons across eternity
like she does the soft white seeds
of pink melon.
Everywhere is center,
and everything recedes from the rest,
two steps forward,
no steps back.
Old pickups collect rust
at small town stations
I’ve passed through;
lavender, denim, loose white tops.
A dull bell claps on exit,
I wave goodbye
through dusty glass.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
My hand is spectral,
blue in the dashboard
lights, yellow lines recede
to the black.
Behind
red.
Midnight, I’m driving.
Passenger window
partly cracked,
ricochet breezes.
Decades to travel
still.
I keep right,
happy to be
slow.
AM radio,
dead disk jockeys
haunt the airwaves,
station jingles lilt and fade,
echo.
I pray I don’t tire;
straightaways.
I steer at the curve’s apex,
ahead of the headlights,
hyper-vigilant,
I don’t
foresee
you, a child,
in misty high beams,
before
impact.
I open all the windows,
blast the heat; cruise
control.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Midnight, sparkled frost.
A full moon presides o’er fields,
where I’ll never lie.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Fresh heaven, new earth,
Jerusalem, the betrothed:
Love as he loves you.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 