Author: FarJourney Caribbean

           

        Camped out near river falls of gold, in grab bags
        climb attempts . since Noah, who’ll pair ‘n’ ark
        all in ? jaws open, dazed though not by the ocean
        coming rise | god growths in the bone; in public slack
        flesh flogging.

        At crash sites, not all glass shards swept up, they
        purchase ‘n’ place flowers | to win new lease hearts
        lower limbo^like under . sticks that poke at fate
        sand holdings.

        Cycling past long lines outside the Embassy, near 
        broke as forever^heads refuse to step away . toss
        feathered hats, the rumpus^rodeo stories; mud
        reptiles oil – Nothing’s door frame.

                                                ~

                                         In^out heaven’s vault breath
        savings not secure as Numbers weigh . for hopes
        that spend on prayers even the horse whose hoofs
        upturn the earth has betting limits.

                                  Fingers test with tips near end 
         sea humors, benign today ? lighthouse^missed
         chest full heavings.

                        Arrgh! every siren in the world warns
         of clouds with rocks in them | find your spot, get
         to penguin^like Alt warming – emperor of mode,
         souls in glacier mass wait.

                                                         – W.W.

           THE MORALISER AND THE FATALIST MONK

           As a river cannot drown you on high ground
           nor a whirlwind raise dust out of a deep pool
           nor the best tools guarantee a fair craftsman;
           as you can punish lawbreakers but not force
           sainthood onto common wayward souls like mine
            – so cannot the true path make me stay on it.

            Yes, see, I follow it, and keep falling off.
            
            ………………………………………..

            (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

                                                        
                                     "Or into a teardrop, sadness and unexpected
                                        joy running together, in the eye of a friend
                                         or a woman…"                                                     
                                       - Wilson Harris, Palace of The Peacock (1968)

        
             \ Harmony floats like particles through the ear;             
          the space Agency file^whispers, We might have a job
          for you which is all pilots on cruise need to hear;
          line to ground – grape to pound till the wine
          yelps Yes!

                   At some point circuits ask, How human is this?  
          this man^becoming sense it’s Okay! to strip make
          ripple limbs as sunset gets in the water.

          Drivers in the brain ignore wave marks. Could
          time stop short ? catch alley in play ways . slanted
          like old Paris streets of café, matinée; loft
          for drip dropping migrant pigeons. 

                                                            ^

                        \ So someone brakes, the corners wait; 
          girdings look over shoulders . and just like that
          unused perspirings pass Aie aie aie.

                                     Nerve snaps back, Can we go
          now? end plates face . head heart can’t determine
          Who’s away?
                                                               At the lights
          orange grants all one close call, Who verging
          that much cares ? paint scraping | later claiming
          Never felt this . desert storm like coming.

          No, don't shut down the heavens ! so genders
          trusting camel flow sway^hold . Oh ja swallow
          toll.
                                                     – W.W.

           MORE

                                                               Yes: who would not            
           want to fall again into a dream so gorgeous?
           At least until your soul no longer needs to ‘fall’.
              and what was the name of that garden again?
                   and what fruit did you dream you weren’t supposed
                        to eat?  which god did you dream you failed?
                              which sin and whose guilt did you have
                                  to pay for?  which scales of love
                                       to untilt till whose conscience
                              was clear

            ……………………………………………….

               (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

          
                                                          There's nothing more absurd  
       than the idea of Death, for always we’re ‘breathing our last’;
       It’s always ‘the end of the world as we know it’, whether
       We know it or not, and it was at the world’s edge where i,
       Faith Chattergoon, was continuing to fool myself
       That i was dependent on nothing and no-one,
                                                                             like a lamp
       That blindly believes it’s its own source of light, forgetting
       That much must be burnt up towards the spreading of its rays
       And that many hands maintain its mantle and trim its wick.

                                                ^

       I could sense that i was a link in an infinite chain
       Of energy flowing through me and all other people,
       But, in order to move through and beyond their obsessions,
       I had had to behave as though mine were independent
       Of theirs and not watered by the one invisible spring
       Flowing down from the mountain of faith in Life, translating
       Itself into the ripples of streams lakes rivers falls and seas
       Of neverendingly dreaming breath on Earth

                                                ^

       Now pretend i’m jean-luc godot or bela tarr and say  
       Love and God are ‘only’ humankind’s greatest creations,
       Why do we keep ‘believing in’ Love, despite its record
       Of instability and crimes committed in its name,
       But doubt the validity of its redoubtable twin?

        (from “fatima solagua arterra’s nudes” by Brian Chan)

           First half spent pacing for sort^selection; should
           have stirred worlds by now but, yeah yeah, climate
           change.
                          With not many omelets left over crack
           performance angels hover . what’s expected of you?

           Can I keep my aurora on?  Of course, dark child.
           Floats of light night canceling won’t stop . so you grow
           up.
                               In havens where someone climbs tower   
           steps to ring the fortune bell they scan the clouds
           for Mary hails; dogs bark at estate fail scents, one
           behind the others.
                                                                           Aargh!
           You shouldn’t bank on stories like that. The colony
           ‘n’ chain of appetite rudders long | goodness
           shelters hookers who cache gems, while jewelers
           loupe^test our laughs ‘n’ poop . contractions.

                                               ^

                   \ Stomach swell^flat terms kept, sometimes 
           some thing burns on | dragon wind^down bum bum
           heavy, no tattoos to slay.
                                                           Still, the best laid 
          prayers win, nah true? | hand clasp rear lift, millions
          ghosted . Admin Climb unto me! ascending.
                                                                            Aargh!
          (silverware glass clink) not to worry; tomorrow more
          piss^show off rehearsals . balcony crow^neck listening,
          press ahead.

                                                                      – W.W.

           DESPAIR AS BOTH BRAZIER AND ITS FUEL
                                                   

           Yet the breadth of my perspective leaves me no
                              doubt:  the so-called classics
                              and moderns are flat notes,
           flowers that have not yet matured, or green fruits;
           politics, news of death, lies and pills all seem
                              only a lazy dream
           of gossipy fictions, anthills of valleyed
           men seen from peaks and stars – which, though distant, are
                             perfectly reachable.

               ………………………………………………………….

                   (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

                                                                                                                                                                                                
                                                                    
                                       "…the selfish fear of experiencing fear,
                                     the selfish love of the possession of love."
                                        – Wilson Harris, Heartland (1964)

               
           One flinch bare gets every bone false started; then 
           where are we ? thrown off track. Nothing happens
           if you freeze inside your clamour | hardly a night
           breath safe till dawn . fastings that harness the day.

                                                                     Plant happy
           who'll jig if their organic mate migrates ? bottom
           baiting can you handle shark teeth circles, value
           dates.

                      \ For awhile in the pool someone holds you 
           up until the fears that keep you listing shed; though
           for islands hoping to get noticed molecules will shake;
           ocean old cross^ties, groyne tested.

                                     Angles open the gaze pins shelfie
           Isabels who can’t help reaching . jars of sugar
           cane licks, papi^sticks; ecstatic baby formulas.

                                                ^

                         Nonstop sky disk start^closure, the stars 
           like residence bulbs | for souls in duct tears only
           floaters rainbow^worthy saved.                                        
                                                                    / Earth sewn 
           there’s still the space asteroid streak at play . before
           reduced to memory hits we veer away  < laptop
           lounge ware; your bags, wrinkles.     
       
                                               / Dive gongs . the neighbours
           loud, still at it >  there! right in the pocket, balls
           ablaze mein Gott in gory . nang walang pagaalin
           langan.
                                                            – W.W.

           OUR SONG OF BOTH SIDES
                                                                    
                                                                      
                                                                    Like a fox 
           wanting to cross a frozen river, you halt,
           yourself frozen, at its edge, and you listen
           for any sound of flowing water, before
           deciding whether you want to take the risk.
           The rushing stream you may hear is your own blood’s,
           and the quackgrass, cockatoo or lime you see
           are your own dreams of every blade, wing or branch
           that has ever been created by the stars
           of your eyes linking their light to that of suns
           of sleepwalking days and of high-flying sleep

           ………………………………………………

            (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

       
 
          I'm a practising psychologist, i lied, and at once           
          The Lebanese restaurateur’s whole manner again changed
        – Back to that of an unflappable bonhomme of Culture.

          I tell you, he said    of this Galenza whom of you speak.
          Perhaps you be seeking him because he have escaped
          The clutch (clutches?) of your professional treatment.  Perhaps
          He too be waiting to be catchèd hand-redded for crime
          Of madness neither he nor you could begin to explain.

                                          *

          No, i sighed,   nothing that melodramatic, just a case 
          Of following up on the aftermath i mean career
          Of a young patient who, to all intents and purposes,
         (The clichés multiply and rattle on when you’re bluffing)
          Has disappeared off the face of the Earth, or something like…
          My voice trailed off lamely:   i no longer believed myself.

          Feeling i couldn’t match the Arab’s radio-ready
          Fluency made me realise i know longer knew what
          The point of my trip to yours-to-discover Loffdoff was.
          Could anything a dying pro chose to do once retired
         (That tired term making crass sense only as a pre-coffin
           Resolution to decades of respectable routine)
           Have a point, like some ambitious pyramid or arrow?

         (from “fatima solagua arterra’s nudes” by Brian Chan)

     
                                    "Steps and balconies…nailed with abandon…         
                                       making hazardous ladders against the universal
                                        wall."
                                         - Wilson Harris, Palace of the Peacock (1968)

         Meant for one part human find . the halo^head leap
        from glass towers down avenues into electric cars; heard
        on elevator rides through moon roofs – seconds split now,
        the nano in billions . bird, coin; marine, divine.

           \ Played for gang . clip^idle hands that cradle
        the promise of the magazine lock | Please, no! falls
        on stutter^start ears. For carrion keepers who stamp
        the hall pass for flatulence swollen so beside
        the point.

        Served to chefs who swear they control the plates 
        and ovens in mandarin districts, as grilles seek
        alliance with blind^hot grids; the root power shifts,
        old grow^catch stock convenience ceding.

           \ Yeah man, the unbeing creeps faster than a plane
        dumps splashings of phantom repellent.

                                             *

           \ Whose whales ? stranded on this private beach; fires,  
        floods deemed omens of balance up^inching; forests
        logged for floor concealment . the codes to rain
        light quiet agency.
                                                     Still, watch out ! get  
        those crapaud throat^sacs singing they wouldn’t stop
        till the feast is over.         
                                                            \ For now, part
        take! as the broad leaves said to the elephant passing
        deer | glass of wine on the terrace; free bagels.
                                                                   Stripped, laps
        consuming . bells, no telling if^when | so you know.

                                                                        – W.W.

        TO A PROUD MEEK INHERITOR OF THE EARTH'S TILT

            Once he too was a heavy earthworm beneath    
        your lawn and flower-garden – until he rose
            into the air on a magpie’s wing and breath
        and could perch now and then among your lilacs
           (which he, as a worm, could only smell and dream
        of tasting) and not have to care if skylarks
            sang sweeter, flew higher or freer than he;
        to fly black-and-white and cry cut-and-dried seemed
            enough of wanting to become, so to stay.

        ………………………………………………

         (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

       
 
         Even the crossing guard with no real benefits              
         to wave forward in the roundabout of forms reconsiders
         her child shepherding thing . the way house numbers
         short cut fear scanning the air as seasons turn.

         Eye for eye, scriptured so, like tooth exchange; face 
         truth to wake the palm smacks; and history prepares
         a place for gracious beheading blades, femme shavings;  
         dishonour handles.
                                             ~                                                                                                                                                                                          
                                                        / Our island frog minds 
         inlet any moon . pool anchor, the catch or pitcher
         twisting stream.
                                                    Rage no longer at the sea 
         cell mass repairs signal Time! Union Cap’n . up off bent
         back pay.   
                                           / The search to understand what
         really happened anywhere could stall . which orifice
         tongues trust.
                                                    Shakespeare or our Walcott
         once lowered class heads for sumo wrestle reads, slip
         knot ease. Idle fingers now swipe glass pin blame
         accounts must feed.  
                                             ~  

                                    \ From ocean bed ghost limbs rub
         stone redress  >  the nearest shore | what’s so weird
         if boulders stare ? smell gambit weed desire.

                                         \ Crow to John, back when no 
         one beak^clicked Approved : angel your angles,
         rounding knight; touched so, beguile the witch.

                                                                          – W.W.

                   THE KING OF NOTHING

                      What the world calls power
            is nothing compared to the abdicator’s throne,
                  the emptied attention
           of the student-king who fails every proving test
                  but whose eyes, heart and guts
           are opportunist for every hint of the Light
                  which at every moment
           watches for the walls of mind and soul to let down
                  their drawbridge and ladders,
           so to allow the Light’s invasion to become
                  the garden as the end
           of the path without end, path of Earth to starhood
                  and angels to god-men

              ……………………………………………………….

               (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

           

           But what was lunch my amnesiac tongue can't tell and earned                
           His chalk-pale waitress (from Iraq, he told me) a large tip
           – Which she raised her eyebrows at, as though it couldn’t exist.
           This contempt impressed me and on impulse i asked her if
           She knew of a young visual artist, Stewart Galenza:
           Perhaps she might have heard of him in a nightclub somewhere?

                     She frowned, raising her eyes for Heaven’s assistance, 
           And Heaven rescued her through the agency of her boss
           Who had overheard my question.   Tell me, he said, looming,
           Why you want to know?     You be private detective, mister?

                                                *

           – No no no no no,  I assured him, but, I couldn’t help 
          Laughing  – in a way, yes.
                                         – Well, he said, you be or be not?
          That’s still the question, I joked, but the prince was not amused.

                                                *

          The waitress, relieved that her boss had taken over, backed
          Away from us as though she were taking leave of the Queen,
          A submissive look marring her pointedly proud features
          That, for a moment, distracted me from her boss’s new
          Quasi-belligerent if not paranoid attitude
          Of humourlessness bordering on utter resentment.
          It was my turn to wonder why about his asking why.

         (from “fatima solagua arterra’s nudes” by Brian Chan)

          
          The breast that swells for that first child, or flirts with              
          that bearded man – how it flash^heats if some ungodly!
          unlatched thing intervenes. 
                                                      Until that moment you had
          no idea | inside these chamber walls an asset sleeps
          – to activate whose iron hot code after prayers
          won’t poke? – winged to respond.

          The kitchen knife rack understands, We’re good! sheen   
          up for any canyon ride | tired to tell the truth of table
          cloth pairing, onion ‘n’ spread chores.
                                        Good grief ! not the melee scythe
          swing, little David shottas sling. Watch me! faith
          fear polyps stick so the range host knows.

                                             *

                                \ Old fluid leaking body parts swear 
          they’d find reserves for one last mission . relieve
          dull pleasure^pain hauled mute all these years.

                                 \ Break timid’ties like flies to wonton  
          soup the right hand swats | get dressed, it snaps,
          blood to do about nothing.

          Variants loose an issue ? like molecules in public
          bowls doubt shaping | nothing our stainless apps
          couldn't handle – you too pronoun^cocked yield
          gaps to plug . twin^pact aiming.

                                                          – W.W.

             THE HUNTER WHO DOES NOT EAT MEAT

             My grounds are what you might call clouds and my prey     
                is the winged deer whom I must stalk until
                     he, aglow with ripe evasion, turns
                     his face to mine to offer his whole
                being with his wings as outstretched to me
             as my arms with their arc and arrow to him

             To feed on those wings without having known them 
               is the glad blind business of my fellow
                   villagers whom I have left behind
                   so as to find them the finest food
               which I myself, fasting, only feed back,
             in thanks, to the air’s sacrificial angel.

          …………………………………………….

          (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)