for Yonette D, back in the days
This office worker on the 17th floor in this movie
would perch on the window sill, during lunch break,
working to impress this girl he wants to sleep with;
tossing dollar bills like brand tissue from a stock
he grows for parley.
Guessing the gold bait would land at the feet of
juggle jobbers down town up streaming; though some air
lift like hems get snagged in tree limbs; or settle behind
a dumpster; get stuck like pigeon marks on wind shields come
unstuck brake miles away at traffic lights or toll booths;
last to palm.
Feeding the fish, he tells the girl
whose nipples peak lips cheery nibbling the view: he's
up load funny, can afford to take her out to dinner;
make her laugh hard on court play.
Aha! you tee off ̶ knowing Fore! how cloud borne
poems find you: at an attic window stuck in mood swing,
girl friend in limbo under rumpled quilt; a snow event
out butterfly flake initials, uncatchable ̶ as when crowd
funding fingers click
the muse in cat scat heat swipes world wide altitudes;
your sky code blue.
– W.W.
THE MUSE
cannot admire every
jewel she inspires in men
who are after all nothing but
(even when gods she makes them feel)
and so sometimes produce nothing
but polished tediums or bright lies
which they, like brats, demanding atten-
tion, drop in her lap, expecting
for their efforts no less a reward
than her love and continued blessings
for each and every one of their
beautiful complaints about her
unjustified neglect of them.
(from "Scratches On The Air" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 