“Yes, everything coincides.”
– Julio Cortázar, Hopscotch (1966)
We crossed the street and entered this park;
people were so sure grass turned the music on
set : sunning half nudes said . the bee hive dreads.
Who on a chip kept count as aliens danced
bending for every conceivable triangle? knew what
it cost from crawl to fly, boredom to 'rave > just pinch
open Amazon mammoth jaws.
Word sent forward about found metrics for civilization
spook particles, vibes before broadband . not our
Bob adjusting Nobel road tight strings.
Play, It’s not what you think. Smoke
like felony this riff, exhale great expectations
like earth a new planet | the gene pool red
blue cool . remains from tolls we paid.
Bad nights gave confession in noon stalls, oh yeah,
first light geese wedged golden lays . dreams
spoken for.
– W.W.
COMING TO PASS
A straw of smoke
in a vast bright sky
is this moment ̶ not
so much passing
as pretending to pause
like a quivering hare
on a crisp lawn,
each dreaming the other, both
busy at hearing the hints
of their swarming harmonies
of atoms always fading,
even as they're regrouping,
ever prompted
by a disturbing breeze
drawing and erasing
desire, pressing
it not to settle
for the latest chord
of its leaning.
(from "Nor Like An Addict Would" © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 