Got one virgin banana fo' you, gyal, the taxi
driver through road grind heat tried, braking
for a straggle of cows sun stroked reneging; a cigarette
like fare scout behind his right ear. Thighs chafe.
He come home last night late; not one word; gone
out again, her mardi gras cleavage cried; wetting
the plants in her nightie, the shaggy dog on the patio
panting paying she no mind. Sinus caverns next.
In Japan Ministers does bow & resign for cracking
bad jokes, which reminds me – Lexi, schedule
a press briefing; and where the whip? I go show
these mokos who they playing with here. Jumbie rider.
House hush up, he does want to kneel over my face
with it, belly like pumpkin blooming, finger grip
for hand cuff. I does turn mih head. And vex so if
curry shrimp and choka not ready. stuffing in. you wait.
I don't want to sound political in terms of
statistics per se power pointing the authenticity of
narco white whale identifiers – yes, pass by me nah - Wahab,
the Lighthouse man – coast guardian of the nation.
For Lexi a towel wrap round like sarong after bath up
dates her heritage East; plus flights to Japan for banker
boyfriend noodle slurping dragon breath ocean tonnage high rise.
In working order, her parachute; inside the zaboca, her home.
After noon high blue on our island – like from 3 to 6? – the long
way home from schoolhouse, impulse and restraint;
that bad mind in khaki, eyes following we – ay aay
aaay! – stop phone and listen: hell's cross road sweet vendors.
– W.W.
VERSE LYRIC
Sometimes, it's possible, all of it, to feel
one has actually lived, has actually had
a life, has – even as it's slipping away
into the cracks of other lives, other worlds
as they are slipping down the throat of one's own
Sometimes I don't even have to talk like that,
don't have to think, can simply lean at the top
of invisible stairs in a house of sleep
and entertain my bloodstream and my breath and
the routine stabs and groans off the wall of time
Sometimes I can kiss your mouth and that's enough
or enough the wanting only, the waiting
for desire to take its own sweet shape without
our having to manipulate a moment
into some puffy proof of our rock of love
Sometimes as now when there is nothing to say
I can open my mouth or a book and sing
or read my life of love, no less, in the most
artificial lyrics of liars long dead
and such magic outlives a million amens
(from "Scratches On Air" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 