I guess we’re somewhere in the smear of things
right between the eyes and ears and legs of things
upside down screaming on the edge of wings
so neatly clipped
in narrow fissure chasms squeeze us tight
but we emerge in full span soaring high
too soon too fast, my love, too late too sad, my heart
breaks that this is less than fleeting love
gliders – everywhere clouds and biplanes
they hang there right above our heads
and do you know, the wild blue balloons do too?
Chagall 2015
Avatars on the outs
caps flying
along with sh&@ like this
effing ampersand
asks not what he can do
for her country
Open bracket
(curly bracket?)
semi-colon
Chagall 2015
It’s Saturday might,
I imagine you all are happy,
making the most of your time,
this and every weekend.
You all are so much
better than I
at movies and dinners,
first kisses in back seats,
moving at the pace of leisure,
free from work and wake-up times.
Dance music, bounces the evening,
keeps the flow, inhibits not,
moves the feet, dervish and whirlwind,
along private patterns, known by hips,
strut and gait.
I’m a peacock parading a beautiful plume
of violet, indigo, and stark white tatting,
thousands of barbs bound the edge of my wings,
oils keep out the mist, that otherwise weighs me down.
I think of you coming home late
after a wonderful evening
on the town,
tired, consumed, and totally tipsy,
savoring Saturday into the wee hours,
milking it for all it’s worth,
knowing that it doesn’t come back around,
ever.
Kicking off your shoes, loosening your belt,
putting on your favorite album, vinyl,
at the perfect volume, pouring yourself
yet one more drink, sipping it,
in a private reverie, as you contemplate
the certainty of your being there,
the perfect clarity.
Let it all
just fade away,
simply melt into
the passing.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 