Find a hill, a dimple of land, lie down,
wedge your cheek into the hollow
of rich organic debris, breathe
deeply the years of the regolith
beneath you, grind your pelvis
to bedrock, mold to gravity’s
pull, feel yourself ride
the earth, Gaia ’round
and around
Wheeee! See!
We’re falling!
© Chagall ∞
The aroma of oil and salt,
a breeze cooler than the stagnant
air about me, fried potatoes
on ocean winds waving somewhere
on the planet, whitecaps hold foam
while moonbeams reign supreme
in the gravity, the order of things,
as all must be is surely.
© Chagall ∞
I hold my head
I move my hands
sculpted fingers
In poised asymmetry
I trace rotations
about my core
I am the orbits
of moon around earth
around sun
I am
polyrhythm
Chagall 2015
Crisp incessant smacks across faces
then tears flow deliciously lips
lick my lashes
leaving me only
more lonely than now
She waits in style for moments to gather
her future is wrapped in red sash
or maybe her past
peeks through
There it goes again
on the breeze when suddenly
I drop
Dizzy in spirals
from heights attained glory
repeating some wordy world view
Wouldn’t you?
Coo-ka-choo
Tangled in branches
snarled in the bramble
I scurry to the roar of the falls
Aqueous foam
it’s oxygen-rich here
massive turbulence
magnetic churn of moon tides
I will not
hold on
I will not restrain
the flow
I will plummet headfirst
ride the scree like an aquanaut
I pray to be crushed
under oceans of water
reborn in a niched quiet eddy
on my back in warm sunlight
I croon
with these long extinct birds
Chagall 2015
Things don’t fall
so much as the world rushes up
to meet them where they float
everything’s falling
so nothing moves
apparently
my heart drops
dips on a steep rise
when I see you these
skittish palpitations
slow loping
gravity hang-glides
free-fall
alighting gently
touchdown running
on the soles of my feet
so solid this ground
curves under me
perfectly bouncing
I’m buoyant
on ground sponge
baked in rain
still falling
on planets
big rocks
in mid-air
as a failed aerialist
I know the last fall’s hardest
to mistime
to lose heart
to miss the palm of the hand
outstretched in mid flight
people don’t fall
so much as the ground rushes up
to meet them
everyone’s falling
apparently
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 