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
This afternoon,
I tied a balloon,
to the gold pierced ring,
to my navel.
I sense
the trade-winds
on high, tug
my soul
through the taut string.
Umbilical
to cirrus nimbi,
serious business
this nimble coercion
of word to nuance,
motion to notion,
failure to grasp.
Still, to feel jostled
in currents,
suddenly aloft in one giant yank!
I spin like a whirly,
pendulum broad sweeps
across the darkened sky inverted,
sacrificial innocent on a bungee,
just before the fall.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 