"I grow coarser; and more modern"
– Rosemary Tonks, "The Sofas,
Fogs, and Cinemas"
When she came along ̶ pink moon petals from rock bare
out source East; not shielding difference with head light deer
freeze dart ̶ I tell you, she was good. Night fevers she'd
distill pale morning accounts, whatever this folder wanted
with her.
Always the smile ̶ you'd think she'd closed the filing
cabinet just in time [ In the State of Rayuela : * She had
smiled at him, as if she were trying to understand.* ]
In the vault ̶ our breath thrust rushed up zipping end
of day ̶ no past time keys to parse whether she preferred
the desk top. All season fingers changed the code made sure
whatever happened our game off grid bird feathered
up the nest.
Transfer years forward ̶ dark sides zebra crossing ̶ she'd grown
cherub wings ̶ Still single? watching profits grow? ̶ main
frame no longer corporate testing ̶ nonrecharging blue the red
tomato slicing appétit!
I was left dictate
standing down sure no more what floating pain the future
would send in ̶ company boss hardly beloved, intern
diversifying stock, the thirst fund slaking taking all
for granted.
Others saving for the after life defer
the big game hunger: how and where and still we crouch
scent trade self definitions; app raise the rear view wrong
sometimes with only dragged cross hair loss sluggish stream
to show for it.
Your undone so ̶ "Good morning"
̶̶ unlinked one.
Believe we must I guess some logging
synergy continues long on. Fire the joyas burn again head
lift; not smiling much though.
– W.W.
NOW
The only future that calls to me
is the one that is no longer one.
The promising golden sun of dawn
gives way to a crystal purity
that in turn becomes the blaze of noon.
There is a Chinese clock that shows time
neither linear nor circular
but an ever-unfolding flower
always shifting, remaining the same,
a figure beyond hope-or-despair.
And yet, and yet, running up the stairs
of lust for the sun of my own soul,
I meet your rising full moon and fall
back down the cave where the lone wolf hears
tomorrow's moans matching now his call.
(from "Nor Like An Addict Would" © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 