Holly Go-Lightly,
ever so slightly being,
the point of it all.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
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Mount Suribachi.
Beautiful February.
Face down in red sand.
A zen garden, she
paints delicate strokes, canvas,
calls to final prayer.
Buddha and Truman,
tell us life is illusion,
a A bomb away.
A young, dashed Marine,
chants semper fi, hail mary,
far away Brooklyn.
Right after dead aim,
sunlight on Suribachi,
starlight on Greenpoint.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I just realized it was you all along,
leaving me messages, all those thumbs up,
comments on posts, follows, like ghosts, dead heats
on roundabouts (. . . in and around the lake . . . )
You had to know it was me all that time,
in charge of who there was in charge of me.
I befriend myself almost everyday.
I even go so far as to block me,
if I get out of hand, out of my mind,
under my thumb, under my skin, inside
out, the more I turn me, solo mio,
strepto-cockeyed, hackneyed, misoyakied,
pedigreed, filigreed, I feel the need
to fill the void, it’s best to avoid me
when I get this way, once, twice, every day,
day in, day out, this hoodoo, who’d you do
if it was the last day? bye bye bay-bay,
papa’s gotta brand new bag, her price tag
too steep, run silent, run deep, run amok,
amounts to nothing, nada in the end.
dubya dubya dubya dot dot dubya
dubya dot, come on and do the loco
motion with me, you got to swing your hips
now, forever, hold your piece, know your place
back in line, back in the day, packin’ heat,
canned heat, I’m going up the country babe,
don’t you wanna go? you wanna holler
throw up both your hands, panic is spreading,
blame it on the have nots, blame it on Mame,
wah-wah-wah-tusi, baby it’s the dance,
bailar hermanita, senorita,
escucha me ahora, sil vous plait.
I can’t believe it’s Friday already!
It should be Friday everyday!
Somebody pinch me ’cause I must be dreaming!
If I’m lying, I’m dying!
I hope I don’t die before Saturday
’cause that would really bum me out.
(. . .twenty four before my love and I’ll be there. . .)
© Chicheme, 2013
Running away, we outrace the comets,
then rest on our backs, at the southern pole;
stars, concentric orbits, clarions toll:
Life on this planet, as good as it gets.
My love for you hangs in mist, crystalline,
cascades in tickling ripples down your face,
rinses from inside out, the dust, this place.
There is no heaven, nor hell, this serene.
There is no place at all, there’s no bridge back.
I reel, mad dance, awestruck, struck dead, anew,
the last call. We didn’t make it did we?
“No my love, we both died in the attack.”
Cold wild winds blow hard in vain to renew
the calm before the storm, eternally.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
She got her brother his own bag,
of assorted chocolate truffles.
He opened those that Christmas day.
“So you won’t sneak into my room
anymore and take mine.”
“You take dese ones, the boo wappers.”
They both smiled at his largesse.
She left him that following year
for college, while he stayed behind.
And when mom and pop passed away,
they saw each other less and less,
except here and there, now and then.
And when he leaves, she finds small gifts,
tucked in odd corners: nonpareils,
cherries and bittersweet sandies.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I reminded her that the night before,
she’d told me she was setting her clock
for 7:23. I responded
by setting mine for 7:24.
She was the early bird and I the worm.
And that caused to remind us: when she reached
over and across me, for the light switch,
I kissed her gently, in stealth mode mind you,
on her cheek, at that precise moment when
the room changed from warm orange light to black,
silhouettes illuminated, moonlight
coming through the window. We nestled in,
she, compact and petite, flat on her back,
and I, stretched on my stomach, my left arm
extended overhead like a swimmer,
reaching for the wall in the final lap.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I think this poem works well when paired with For A Sleeping Chloé
At the piano, I play a light blue,
my left hand punctuates, strident bulbous,
circles of gray, droplets of black timing.
My right hand ripples arpeggios, brisk
splashes of gold, Pollockesque, allegro.
Musically, on pilot-automatic.
Out the window, there in the sky, I see
major triads as clouds move slowly, pushed;
invisible winds above dissonance,
beyond the minor second. Zephyrs play
in the treetops, to and fro, suspended,
diminished, dominant, gin and tonic.
Then you arrive, a refrain at the door,
so I add the seventh, ninth, eleventh.
Your smile lifts me up in harmonics,
too many octaves high, in overtones
that crash the normal frequencies, like bells
in heavens, all is hallowed, on this night.
On ground, a breeze stirs the honeysuckle
love, pianofortissimomente.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Boppers, then beatniks,
hippies, before we were freaks.
Now we’re just wizards.
© Carlos Chagall, April 25, 2013
I remember when Zimmerman passed you
on the way up to apartment 4D.
“Man, a hard rain’s a-gonna fall,” he said,
“I ain’t heard nobody sing it like you.”
We felt back then like we were almost gone,
like motherless children, long ways from home.
I’m crying now, Rich, I miss you so much.
Freedom’s another word for all to lose.
Pizza on the street, outside the Fillmore,
blowing smoke at the Why Not?, the Fat Cat,
retuning my axe, every time you played,
in open E, open D, what the fuh! 🙂
’cause you had those funky fingers, my friend.
We sent boys away, like Handsome Johnny,
and back in the day at Max Yasgur’s place,
you brought it home Richie, minstrel from Gault.
You kicked it off, that long ago new age.
Songbirds in Bedford-Stuy mourn your passing.
With you gone, there’s one less Gospel Singer,
one less voice to recite what it was like,
back then, back there, a long, cold way from home.
© Carlos Chagall, April 23, 2013
One of those weekends we hate to see end. Here’s our parting shot to you all, a cover of Jason Mraz’s Make It Mine. Sebastien, vocals and rhythm. Carlos on backing guitar. We hope you like. We had a good time covering other people’s stuff this weekend. Have a great week everybody, whatever it is you do for a living. We are packing up and making the drive back to the city.
Alphabet City 