Our islanders pick ‘n’ shovel through mind ‘n’ field,
from Admin clicks tekking licks like liquor; stray
cow @ Graze don’t trust bend elbow | dollar yuh
want, shallow yuh get.
Curators of plantation pain . who could out^vent?
Smarter to hide heart savings . totems dug out of mud
they’ll follow fingers whippy wind testing.
\ Stars in the distance guide our forest
breathers clear . bodies tack on bus or boat stack
the weight of history shifting; like palmate leaf
rollers > draw, float together . tilt, sink together.
*
\ Reachers time their tables, at heaven’s
port for epaulette line plumbing | in basement
bed down moon inbox . yet to set for cloud
solicitation.
Below the hills @ Arrivante dogs bark; recreation
shots, sling right | last commode to mind The fuck
you looking at? our business only.
/ A car
horn that plays La Cucaracha? I don’t think so.
A flight of whisky ? what branches stronger moor
our wings.
/ Sea legs
secure, up next tower glass laddering | fluff
the memory pillow . rumble, get some sleep.
– W.W.
SUN WIND
………………
………………………………….
We go back, the wind and I, and she’ll still
use my ears as doorways into my head
where she clears away any cobwebs and
leaves behind her echoes to haunt me: she likes me:
once in the grass she was about to cross
paths with me when she changed her mind and rushed
towards me and kissed me like no woman
ever has, like a big friendly dog or a child.
There’s also ‘solar wind’ – which reminds me
what I’ve been waiting for has arrived
on my shoulder perched like a bird there blown
by the wind whom, through these thoughts of her, I become.
(from “The Gift Of Screws” by Brian Chan, 2008)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 