Raimonde himself did every kind of other-glove work he
Could get. There were some jobs he couldn’t do – like carpentry
And plumbing and stuffing animal-flesh in plastic bags:
For some jobs he had no gift; for some he wore the wrong rags
Or said the wrong words; then there were jobs he just wouldn’t touch,
Not because he was ‘moral’ over them, not that so much,
But more because he couldn’t stomach even the idea
Of their existence entrenched in its claro-que-sí-mais-
Oui-naturlich-goes-without-saying self-satisfied but
Unsatisfiable self-addiction
~
Once a man had tempted Winterkiss, while he was still a
Student, to take up the contract-life of a paid killer.
They were drinking beer at a bar in a downtown-hotel
When that man offered to help Raimonde get out of the hell
Of debts to a commercial ‘university’ that were
Killing him: why not ‘waste’ those by erasing a mere blur
Of a useless stranger? Why? The start of a new career,
That would provide him Security in less than a year,
That’s why. It was such a nice offer so pleasantly put,
Raimonde knew he had to refuse it
*
But behind his refusal, he had entertained the thought…
Squirming like an eel in his purity’s nemesis-net
Of triumphant remorse for gold it would not let him get.
~
– Now, back to ex-bus Raimonde walking away from milk spilt,
Milk in three glimpses turned to gall, then to nothing at all,
Then to this small miracle (but which miracle feels small?):
Just as Raimonde’s smile and stride of fuck-it-all surrender
Were threatening to settle for a smugly untender
Version of themselves and view of everything around them
(Things still as skew and blurred as Raimonde newborn had found them),
He looked over his shoulder one last time, don’t ask me why,
And what he saw made his forgiveness-bound self almost cry
With joy (almost: what he really did was sigh with relief
(from *fatima solagua arterra’s nudes* by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 