Body pack rush of side walkers head down
file in wave smart . as cars electric roll no
hands! sigh, and passenger fete brains toggle
between before and after nightly organ feed;
metro centers cap size matters. Even blue bird
divas on wires decline to sing, and over head
war planes dip wing; for it has come again,
the black slab ‒ the obelisk? what Kubrick
talked about in 2001 AD? door silence sealed.
Still no one knows what|who? intends, dare touch
face time . bone toss behind. Palm devices paid
up aim snap icontrails ~ Wow ~ hole spotting game
towers . for faith keep cloud; tissue in case … Mon Dieu!
_______________________________________________________
Occupation? moi? done : propulsion blades beyond
slice not precise . enough staring | you can line my
plots of sea desperation; floor worn knees; ephemeris
tables verifying : once every Oui!3K years . the odds
the chance to scream in concert ‒ man child femme ‒
evacuate . in motion slow our coming ends.
– W.W.
NO ETERNITIES
only pauses
of focus: the broken pot, buried
for centuries under tons of clay
shifting slowly between stone and dust,
dreams of one more moment of being
touched, by probing spade or careful gloves,
the moment of its next shift in time
when it starts to be something other
than what the labelling hand will claim.
So I think of us, cracked and clogged by years
of the weight of our mud and junk and dust,
waiting for some flood of love to cleanse us
but also for our moment of escape
from the very fingers of rain that would
unclog us from the burden of ourselves,
the comforting pain we won’t surrender,
instead choosing to slip out of love’s hold
to fall and smash into another shape
of beautiful interesting hell on earth.
from “The Gift Of Screws” by Brian Chan
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 