Melting pots aren’t all the same.
Go find your own.
© Chagall ∞
Tag Archive: culture
Visitors from the yet-to-come tell me that
I am mentioned innumerable times
in the tale of the bygone years
© Chagall 2017
Dear Reader,
A different kind of post.
Scene: you post a piece, and readers like it.
Variation 1:
You revise the post in a manner that you think “likers” would continue to like.
Variation 2:
You revise the post dramatically, flipping the theme on its end.
Consider: Regarding Var.2 – I believe you owe it to your likers to advise them of such, or
you should abandon the edit and post it as new.
Thoughts? Likes are static, click and done. Yet the piece is malleable, dynamic. The 2 don’t really jibe. One could edit a piece right out of a liker’s comfort zone and the liker would be left memorialized as having liked it!
Happy Thanksgiving Weekend. I will continue to eat through Sunday night and then I am going to get trim starting Monday morning. Honest.
Carlos
Sunday early eve
eastern standard
time
Her parents are old
but still alive
and mine are still
quite dead
We both hang on
we four
Plus others within
our gravity
We call
family
Our love traces
many roots
to get here
We are leaves, we are buds
on a tree growing
Sunday early eve
eastern standard
time
Chagall 2015
The movement of bees across the lilacs,
group brilliance spread, for each flower we touch,
has its own due time, a suckle, a rub,
powdered noses, compound but bloodshot eyes,
quick departures to drop off sweet treasure,
returns in wing-step to resume harvest,
never missing a beat or a petal.
We are the we who colonize this place.
You move, I fill, you fill my move, and so
we dance a pert, apian polonaise,
primal patterns that intoxicate us,
gluttonous pleasure amid the nectar,
I roll in the musky charms of Venus,
without desire to come up for air.
The hive is a place for our alchemy,
where powders convert to beads of gummy
cone-nestled honey, the local terroir,
the minerals and startdust peculiar
to only us, there’s no others like us,
anywhere in the throbbing that surrounds,
nor the worlds of impulse we hold within.
We move like a magic hand, our chevrons
sketch the same subtlety as our synapse,
similar circuitous routes we take
over the landscape, this ecosystem
is home, we are the flight we imagine,
we are patterns we choose, gestures we make,
bonds we forge, one in the one of it all.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 