In the photo we are at
the corner of Rue N. Chapeau Rouge,
Dijon, France, circa 2011,
in front of a flower shop,
each petal so finely fixed in digital color,
your arm under mine, our gazes down, smiling,
with various Dijonaise blurred about us scurrying,
caught up in their day-to-day.
© Chagall 2016
There’s an artist in France
collects heartbeats
Tens upon tens of
thousands of
pulses
Moments in lives of
those who will
in time be gone
Survived
only by these
I wonder does
the data show
if broken hearts
beat softer
Chagall 2016
Throwing out ballast to rise, near dusk,
light air and low flame,
up-draft we go!
Nice little buckle, a trade-wind slap,
but we straight right-up, real fast or we topple.
In the vertical slow chugging puff,
on low winds, poooffft we slow down,
the gondola pendulums,
aerial inertia.
Sometimes I just hold sway,
drop anchors, tie a taut-line,
buoyant, and hover there over
forever, where you are.
Pretty much every day.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
And the women? Ah, the women drive you crazy with their lazy way of talking at you, pouting. Whisper voulez-vous. I never should have come to Paris. I don't seem to be the kind. Two walk the rainy streets along Versailles. The Ile of France, where emperors dance, and the old dome, Notre Dame, leave me breathless tonight. I never know which side of the Seine I'm on. I'll just ask a bookanista, they all know me, call me "Mon ami, l'americain." - to be continued - Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 