We were seriously considering posting at 11PM to remind our friends to join us here at Alphabet City for the midnight EST debut of Rue Chambiges, but decided against it. Instead we poured another Texan single malt and enjoyed the full moon.
Chicheme
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Earlier today posted: We are thinking of posting the final part of Paris as a soundcloud tune, but Sebastien has cold feet about it. I told him to chill. More as this story develops.
Update: Sebastien has agreed to a posting of Paris this evening, music set to poetry. Debut at midnight tonight, here EST. We are excited. Hope you are too. May not be everybody’s cup of tea (bourbon?), but hey, something to do on a Wednesday night. Look for a post entitled Rue Chambiges.
We are thinking of posting the final part of Paris as a soundcloud tune, but Sebastien has cold feet about it. I told him to chill. More as this story develops.
White dude had it coming.
Shouldn’t park his car here.
Stripped it down in no time.
Gutted seats, engine block,
like pit crews at Indy,
in under one minute,
tripods, jacks, hydraulics.
Tires gone, ornaments,
them too, decals. Santos
went crazy with the gas,
almost blew his ass up
when he tossed the zippo,
got backdraft burnt, the fumes
like a little dragon,
and then campfire time.
Flames. Hola diablo.
Ninth precinct boys in blue
and the N.Y.F.D.,
enjoyed the spectacle.
Fire mesmerizes.
People really don’t care.
White dude came back and cried.
He’d seen napalm before
at the Tet offensive.
Hate me. I hate us all.
Detroit cranked ’em out,
we burned ’em up. Life goes on…
© Chicheme, March 2013
10 to 3,
one too many,
heart to heart,
back to back,
crack to crack,
so to speak.
me to you,
hard to tell
you to go,
when to leave.
so two ponder,
as two do,
what to do,
if to (blank),
(yours to fill).
two to tango,
soup to nuts,
one-two-three,
start to finish.
what’s to say?
who’s to know?
you to me,
“got to go.”
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
It’s snowing outside.
Inside I sow lavender,
native, rosea.
The seeds erupt there,
in the perlite, the clay pots,
by frosty windows.
Cow-blue belles on white,
lace-like, soft green sprigs on foams,
tap cold window glass.
Remember that place?
In open fields beside me,
in that other life?
I will freeze you there
in spacetime, kiss your both cheeks,
cold, smooth Rosea.
Lost in deep embrace,
clinging tight when the pond cracks,
us falling under.
Frantic, in frenzy,
we bubble under the ice.
Boiling cold water
burns in our lungs.
We fight for air, the door back
to the lavender.
The world’s quiet though
fires still burn there along
the way we got lost.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Joe Cuba? No, coo-ba.
Escucha mi, tía.
Conguero, play salsa,
go boogaloo, chica.
I’ll never go back to
Eleventh and Twilight,
to Mets games and Rheingold,
mofongo and malta,
to dominoes slapping
on formica tables,
out there on the sidewalk,
outside the bodegas.
Dance dance little sister
dance little sister dance
encantadora dance.
Spray me in the summer,
cool by the johnny pump.
Who needs a swimming pool
when Papo’s got a wrench?
I’ll never go back to
Eleventh and Twilight,
but I’m here under sheets
with you little sister,
now encantadora.
Dance little dance sister
sister little dance dance
dance!
Feel it swell now big finish, the entire horn section stands up and shouts,
“Look out ol’ coo-ba’s back!”
(stuttering, sputtering drumroll and out. POW!)
“Thank you. Goodnight Nuyoricans, goodnight.”
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Monks on fire, ablaze like sandalwood.
We wrap them in scented soft white linens,
like clouds in Katmandu. Since ’51
haven’t seen the sun in Kham and Ando.
Young Tapey, like rains in Dharamsala,
dreams falling through to the dome, to the glow.
In the palm of the hand, little wings stir
air, a drop falls up, like a feather floats
down. Sound, light, time, tickles, pulses, the monks,
Where do they go after they’ve burned away?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
It rained today on my anthology
of James Merrill poems, the spine splayed face-down,
open to The Black Swan. Works of Billy
Collins? Dry inside on the barrister.
Tonight I watched the moon carve sinuous waves
on the surface of the tea in my mug.
Auburn, brunette, in the depths of pekoe,
faint light from above etched vibrating strings
there in the circle, the pool formed in space,
rimmed by the edge. Breezes in the high boughs
like the roll of surf, pesky spry zephyrs.
I sip, swallow, small helpings of starlight,
two sugars, cream. I watch a steady stream,
low flying planes, each tipped by strobing light.
Like Doppler’s, people come, they fade away,
peak loud when near,
then trough, then go, then leave,
then go, then dream, then go,
then cry, then go . . .
. . .
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
The 60s, Tompkins Square Park, Manhattan,
my dad, in khaki slacks and black Ban-Lon,
arced his frame, unleashed a tremendous throw,
straight up, launched a 50 cent stickball
far above the rooftops, o’er tenements,
it’s pink receded to a point, a dot,
hung there in perfect blue noon; hangs there
still.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 