"Such….
as my endurance picks out like a searchlight."
– John Ashbery, "Ghost Riders Of The Moon"
About this manoeuvre: the story rolls like joints on ragged summer
bones, many parliament noons before 1863 ̶ give or take fifty
cotton emperors . face mopping, pink and pleased.
Choreographers in pant
sag disaffection, amused at what passed as celebration in ball
rooms, hewed syncopation to divine flight routes. They'd string
pick deities off home bass hooks while hand claps worked to drive
or screen the hip slip stream : y' Ok? _ this way.
Such boss moves remained basically the same for years. Caught
transferring folks were whipped and tossed in ombré iron
definitions . which somehow contrived to spare one child who watched
ran saved the ghost spell algorithm.
It surfaced again in 1977, horn cut key
board manners, only to vanish chorus hoodoo
like in space ring spirals under old school
doors ( 911 call : the Phantom costumed skin tight on the strip.)
Not to be confused with the cloud
phase "in a blue funk" which threatens to keep it dockered
for another century under motel white sheet tongue swabs . swell
head dawn adders contouring . federal boot and jeans, the patria
line dance forming.
Now what sound _ swept red wings glide cross oceans _ bad
mother shippers. Turn the moon up, see the gazelle wilderness
map making . sky beam sweeper proving now you don't.
Riffs like seasons ride the times . Caution
Spirits . wheel tracks back _ and who's to say.
– W.W.
AWE
Not its matter so much
as its apparition,
its out-of-place-ness, its innocent
awkwardness: a plump lumbering elephant
of a cloud strayed
into our otherwise
vacant veldt-sky of pure
rigorous dispassion: a sky meant
for contrast at best: it is only against
its age-grey screen
that we can glimpse any
raw red, new green, old gold.
(from "Within The Wind" © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 