We are all gathered.
. . . with you. And with your spirit.
Kneading daily bread.
© Carlos Chagall, April 2013
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This was the very first post to Alphabet City in March. We reissue it here as music set to poetry. Sebastien and Chloe on vocals, along with the usual suspects playing behind them. We are having fun here this wonderful April evening outside of NYC, 2013, planet Earth; hope you are doing the same. I'm a wire thin warrior on rooftops in starlight. Red-shifted from eons up alleys, down fire escapes. Black and white flickers from Telstar, from before the flood, but after the mad dash. Back in the day, on Eleventh and A, who knew we were in Alphabet City? Or that Twelfth and D would be the place to be? On Tenth and First we'd quench our thirst with piragüa in July, coquito in June, from the little man with the blue pushcart and the green balloon. So much love, so much heart, so sweet, so right, see you on the corner tonight. Oyeme mulata! Che che colé, que bueno e'? Chicheme, March 2013 © Carlos Chagall, April 2013 Links Telstar
At the tip of my nose,
I draw a big red dot.
I alternate my eyes,
observe my nose in sweeps,
left, right, like a rock face,
thousands of micrometers above the carpet.
Daemons traverse,
from nostril to nostril,
release the grasp on my proboscis finally,
rappel down silken ropes,
coiled fine Austrian pulleys, zzzizzz down ziplines,
hit the baseboard, smack-tumbling then running,
scoot to far-away corners in the apartment,
some trapped there in the slats of the venetian blinds.
With eyes wide open, I jut my upper lip,
look straight down, stick out my tongue, binoculate,
and my nose disappears; my dominant eye
kicks in; I peruse only parts of my face
that I am able to see, (a barren scape
from this vantage point). I am unable to
look myself in the eye. I gaze upward,
blue reflections, holograms from the edge,
there against the dome, the soft placenta,
that holds back the expanse. My eyes adjust
the new focal length, rays a cute obtuse,
strain my peripheral vision beyond
its limits, to wholly wrap around; curved
like space. I see me standing there ahead,
looking out, searching,
so tired; I close my eyes
to rest, the ghost
images of infinity, still there,
inverted on my optic nerve.
© Carlos Chagall, April 2013
Too much clutter,
incessant yapping,
jabber.
Always I.
Tension at the temples,
my mind’s a muscle clenched,
a locked unbudging door,
no matter how hard,
I try.
Maybe, I
just go headless,
wear the world on my shoulders,
direct to the point,
forgo the face.
For-ego, the face.
Scour it clean,
get the gunk out;
it gets bigger as you go,
on the inside,
the less you know.
Emptying, empty, emptied.
Going, gone, gone.
I assert myself selfishly
to relinquish
any self-assertion.
Once bitten, twice removed.
I hit the trigger right,
and I spasms,
bleeds out over its edges,
a warm ooze, loosening shape,
seeping without form,
to fill no thing.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Word choice: choose a word.
Then once it’s chosen, re-choose.
Chew on it a while.
The choice? Yours always.
You get to choose all the ways,
while you while away.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
one, two, three, four, five,
six, seven, eight, nine, ten, e-
. . . .
. . . ?
. . . !
leven, twelve, thirteen!
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Earlier that week, I filled with hate,
the rank odor of Sanhedrin
elders, soiled smocks, unwashed feet,
telling us to stop the teachings.
I was so proud of the others,
they stood up finally for him,
putting the blood back on their hands,
keeping his blood there in our hearts.
Last night, the Tiberias Sea,
was chilled, but beautiful starpoints
hung there high over Galilee.
I told them to cast to the right,
but as always, they don’t listen.
I stopped caring I’m different.
I lie on my back in the boat,
massaged by the gentle rolling
waves, seduced by the briny winds.
I knew who it was before them,
the glorious sun outlined him,
there on the bank in silhouette,
waving us in. “How was the catch?”
The fire was already on,
bread from wild yeasts on flat stones.
He told them to cast to the right,
and of course, this time they listened,
though they did not know it was him;
dawn broke, he caught my eye, smiled,
as if to say, “Nothing has changed.”
One hundred and fifty-three fish,
caught in the net cast to the right.
I could have said I told you so.
The breakfast fish, crisp salted skin,
the bread slightly charred, delicious.
He asked the son of John three times
if he loved him, would he shepherd
the lambs. I fell asleep then
on the sands riding the surf’s sound
to future days, time yet to come.
When I awoke, I was alone.
© Carlos Chagall, April 2013
Flotsam and jetsam,
I’m going down for the count;
bubble-up, glub-glub.
© Chicheme, 2013
Alphabet City 