She places her palms
on the flush of my cheeks,
rubs ice-cold
small tight circles.
I warm her
faster than she cools,
she freezes
before I burn.
Her fever pitch
is a little flat,
her grace note
sounds too sharp.
She’s minor keys,
exotic
open tunings,
but I hardly think
she’s a mystic.
© Chagall, 2013
Assume that there are two and a half
million military personnel
in the U.S. forces.
Canada’s border is fifty-five hundred miles,
Mexico’s roughly two thousand,
the general coastline about thirteen thousand.
Let’s say then twenty thousand miles
for one trip around the perimeter
of our great country,
just to make this easy.
I ask a local seven-year old,
who advises me that there are five
thousand two hundred and eighty feet
in a mile
So in total that’s one hundred and five million
six hundred thousand feet
around these United States.
So here’s my plan:
Let’s bring all of the service personnel home,
each and every mother, father, sister, son, brother, daughter, aunt, uncle, partner, wife, husband, sibling in-law, cousin, friend, lover, poet, musician, machinist, laborer, teacher, and the like –
bring ’em all home,
all two and a half million,
and have them then stand a post around that perimeter,
one of them every forty-two feet,
less than two first downs,
less than a sprint to first base,
about double the distance of the three-point line,
two-thirds the distance from the blue line to the net.
My name is Carlos Chagall, and I approve this post.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
The earth shook,
rumbled steady roll,
like the subway leaving Chambers,
heading for the Center,
sky turned night, came down.
Debris,
soft quiet,
snowfall, deserted
ancient Manhattan,
the southern tip,
where east meets west
at a point
where neither
is what it was,
along gaslight streets,
immigrants stroll,
sing silent carols,
forbidden hymns
for fallen angels.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
We all know someone
who knew someone
who was once “once bitten, twice burned,”
no three-charm, went down,
way down, for the count.
Daffodil daze,
long ago summer,
when we’d samba soft,
swept an upstate girl,
who smelled like lemon,
cloudy sweet, beechnut,
she glided on sand.
We’d kiss, I’d open my eyes before she,
it just never failed – surprised she
would smile, seeing me
again for the only time.
Outside Vails Mills,
there’s a drive-in
long closed,
used to show Cinemascope,
where girls in pink cashmere
took my breath away
long before intermission,
and again when the credits ran.
Cars pulling through the gate,
2 tickets and sodas in hand,
waves of mosquito white-light
from the projection booth,
color-soaked 2D flickers,
cheap speaker hooked
there on the window rolled down,
at the very start,
a Saturday night picture show.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
You can breathe this day,
yet have the gall to tell me
that there is no god?
Aromatic blooms,
life is stirring everywhere,
open up to joy.
Lie down on the earth,
spread eagle, navel to sky,
greet the ancient sun.
Germinate, seedling,
bud, grow, photo synthesize,
rise above your din.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I imagine I’m holding him again,
new born, swaddled, miniature holy man,
in hospital blanket, white wool skull cap.
He fits in one hand neatly. I hold him
carefully; unearthed, rare, fragile relic.
Now he averts the fullness of my hug,
glancing embraces until the next time,
and the time after that, until no more.
The farthest light reaches me now from then.
I go to sleep knowing he won’t be home.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 