No, they can't export this, can it like pine apple
for super city market. It was meant for our island
road, that girl with headphone queued for transport Half
Way Evening, Kingston, the air acrid with hail; for rose
hip swing line carrying on Savannah Noon, Port of
Spain; this fella catching her eye, face mask
message instant love play marronage.
They assemble wails of redeeming, blue chip
dip for fall chance rise; pride Ska high hard I blaze I.
So it don't travel
up North heart chart; that alright, man. Usher it side
ways, back a wall, ripples to belong ̶ here, here
see it? lignum pleading.
– W.W.
[In mem. Rex Nettleford]
YOUR SONG
of solitude and desire you sang
with such ardent simplicity, I felt
the smoke of your breath entwine with mine
to climb up the vine of my back, stretch
towards the raincloud of my heart
and burst it. But instead of the river
you flooded in me, what I hoped
you saw in my face's glass was the sun
of your own smile shimmering through the mist
of these eyes too overwhelmed to tell less.
(from "The Gift of Screws" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 