A part of memory,
a nuance I couldn’t describe
that connected that specific aroma
with a certain feeling up-down my arms and legs
throughout my gut a tingle of being alive and timeless
– I felt it again today.
How strange to be outside
looking in.
Chagall 2015
My how her perfume has lingered this long,
rises from random odd places, mere puffs
of her scent still warm, till fanned
by disruptive cool air.
© Chagall 2015
It’s the way Pop started to go, she said,
small things, inconsequential; so I fret
for things I did today: poured the whole well
of ground coffee beans directly into the pot,
rather than measure the right amount
into the brew receptor, and reached for gel
instead of saline, to lubricate my lenses.
© Chagall 2015
At least once a week, I search Google Maps,
for your house and I know it’s that day
we played hooky from work, July 2012, so hot,
the neighborhood empty and us in the backyard,
you pouring lemonade, I strumming serenades,
barefoot loungers on Barco chairs, watching the world go by,
high from the satellite’s view I zoom slowly
till I enter your heart again.
© Chagall 2015
I’ve always been a sucker for a good lead pencil
mechanical or otherwise, with exotic size like
double o’seven, o’eight, or o’nine – the promise
of scribe on paper, the spilling of thought
like blood though black on brilliant white fibers, pressed
so many linens to emboss with the outpour of my mind
but the scratch – listen . . . do you hear that? that’s quill on papyrus
the sound of it, the sight of it, so much like sex in so many ways
the north-south-west-east of it, a counting of blessings
© Chagall 2015
Rain sounds massage me
each wet gurgle a bubble
dropped hollow echoes
© Chagall 2013
Fractured silver back mars the mirror’s face
To avoid the flaws, we tilt our heads so
Find we’re young again, away from the wear
Between the cracks there in the untouched glass
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 