I fly up the stoop, I near pull a groin,
Las antiguas who sit there grab at my ass
playfully like those secret aunts tucked away,
say goodnight my young prince, ‘sta mañana.
To which I reply, in perfect castellano for each to delight
goodnight, my sweet dear old ladies, till morn’
goodbye for now, till then
© Chagall 2014
The streets smell like tar, chicharon, mofongo, wafts down alleys,
there on the early night air, linger tolls of the day’s end whistles
just audible, cresting the din, a halo,
diffuse, rainbow droplets in a peacock sprawl, fanned
about the hydrant sprays, suppressed by garbage can covers
to let Mr. Softee, fly chicas pass.
The old men play domino, slap them hard on formica tables,
remember tropics before the storm, when salt air veiled
tiny people in perpetual mourning, abuelito working hard with his hands, to push,
pull, polish, and grind, waiting for the night, the right time and way, to say
I’m sorry, it’s all there is, without knowing that it never was.
Nylon string guitar player on a stoop fingerpicks love songs in minor keys,
streetlamp out in front flickers wildly, buzz sparks, dies, leaving her
in hollow reckoning, approaching night, enhances the quality of her reverb,
at least for a moment, small there at the base, pulled steady upward by canyon effect, winds
whip, frenzy ascends to the rooftop, finds the blue hang above the gray,
catches currents that carry to the bridges, spanning then and now,
once and someday, care and neglect, replenish and die.
A lone wolf howls as she flamencos, throws her heart open,
twirled in creased cape, velour for sure, tenor from the isla way smooth
on glissando, hits high notes behind closed eyes, drunken breath, in a fog
that hovers mid-street, a single story above the gutter,
omniscient, watches the village grow, bled along its edge,
cheap madras, raindrops run on palm,
suspended at the broad tips, puff, grow, gradual engorge, burgeon,
burst to refresh, sere lips, dry eyes.
From the fire escape the world is one step removed. I’m a Capulet in my prime, Tybalt’s uncle,
forever pensive, resolute in steadfast impression of myself, a cold rock on a hot night,
the air brakes of city buses on the avenues, my line of sight continuous, east to west,
the cacophony of good night kisses, late night spats, the audible REM of people dreaming while awake, a symphony without maestro, a masterpiece without sympathy, a sterile narcotic, the opiate, the people, the tension, the tensile strength of the cables that hold it aloft exceed the spec, so easy to overlook the speck unless it’s dead center on the lens, looms large like the shadow of iguanas cast on walls of caves by candlelight, by firelight, at this focal point, from this vantage, late in the evening, when the day is lost, simple people scurry, gathering what they may, in the fleeting hours of day, to laugh their lives away.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 