i l s
i l s
i l s
i l s
islands without sand
Chagall 2020
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I remember that highchair, not looking at it, but the view from it,
the objects swimming about the room (people as if under the ocean),
and if I try real hard I recall the sense of it being time to go,
to leave, the feeling of weightless suspension among stars, urgency
to land, the bright rush of blinding white light, the pull of gravity,
finally her face, eyes, hands, lips, voice and smell, the small of her
earlobe as she caresses me, holds my back steady, against her breast,
my tiny finger running the topographic world of her finger, so much
larger than mine, God all around, within everything, no border between
me and her and Him and Her and Me
Chagall 2020
there in the water
all things reflected
blue
as the wind blows
invisible wavy lines
of air
a face emerges
unwavering uttering
let all Be
stutter steps
a winding path
alongside the water
I dive into the reflection
of all things without
floatability
sinking airlessly down
to alight on sandy bottom
facedown prone
convergence on the limit
of all possibilities
at any speed
silica in my mouth
no matter how hard I try
to eschew
as my carbon meets quartz
I crystallize to Become
the record keeper
from underwater I emanate
joyful light remembering
how to breathe
purified luster
clarity is a tablet
to swallow or to write upon
the temperature
of the water around me
rises
I turn on my back
to face the sky
I smile wildly
mouth open
liquid enters me
makes me whole
engorges me
till I consume
(or Am consumed by)
all of the water
like a mother bird
mouth to mouth
come feed
I Am the water
reflecting all things
blue
Chagall 2020
the buzz,
the blaze,
glorious first days
always
mid-morning
and we’ve got time
to kill
the Sun,
my star,
oh God,
your heat
delicious waves
on skin
my heart a rush,
a flutter, I shake
I quake
vast existence
ahead
what’s past
is nowhere
as is now
not even
the very last
moment
noon nor night
ever comes
slow
thick air
opiates
ancient flowers
this is
the endless morning
and we are
immemorial
Chagall 2020
once as an archangel I fell
onto Paris streets
near the arc
a star at the juncture
where life meets death
having known liberty
I yawn and stretch
lick my lips cunningly
die for a cigarette
when did heaven’s floor break?
that’s when I fell
when did hell’s door open?
that’s when I came in
no wonder you can’t feel
the life within you
the light here is way too dim
when did grace cease to be?
that’s when I fell
wonder if I’ll ever get
to see the silver linings
of the clouds overhead
when did I fall,
when did earth cease to be?
that’s when I fell
just an archangel
at the arc triumphantly aching
Chagall 2020
my heart upon yours
a skipping stone
water yet rippled
in the shade of faded day
the cool calls
to the mist, the buzz
slow damselflies
fronds of jade
too many stars
in the sky unreal
I pulse to glimmer
where time stops
hearts stop
each
time
Chagall 2020
no word is as lavender – in scent or color – is in life,
as a film is longer than a poem or a sigh is,
pointillists revel in innuendo, a pout once hidden
behind a shoulder, turns as time turns, twice bitten,
nipped on by lips and a tongue most tender in touch as in life
as a year is longer when newer as younger was a smile
awash in sun that clouds had hidden
away behind serious-nimble strata
upon cheeks
rained down like kisses, a softer sense, what’s ahead within
dappled then mottled, the shadows of waving leaves, offstage: the sun,
adept, persistent, a beacon perhaps, a sentry, a guard on the nod,
a star
there is no creation more possible than this one
she flies laughing-deflating, a wisp of her vanishing self,
a balloon losing air, she is ground around figure once was,
and no one is she, in blood nor marrow, as in life
as a day is longer than a poem or a sigh was
Chagall June, 2017
fingers on gut and steel
do fret such sweet sounds
midget digit gymnasts
contort upon wooden boards
put your ear to the f-hole’s
resonance, reverberate
inside is a small cathedral:
X and treble braces
sound bars and struts
blocks for the neck and tail
miniature flying buttresses
a glass awaiting water
a heart awaiting love
so a guitar awaits a player
is your god half-full
or half-empty?
attack
decay
sustain
release
such is the science
of sound
Chagall 2020
Dear Some Writers,
An ellipsis is comprised of 3 dots, not 4 and certainly not 9.
Please see Crush on the English Teacher
Love,
Carlos Chagall
love is not
seeking thanks
for kind acts
Chagall 2020
