Author: FarJourney Caribbean

          

                After his failure to get his graphicnovel published
            (Too sensational or Not sensational enough or
             Not quite appropriate for our current teenage market),
             Stew thought he’d get an advance from VISA to publish it
             Himself, but gave up on that idea when he discovered
             He was ‘maxed-out’, a few bucks below his credit-limit.

                                                                            *

             You might think he would have tried to get a second job but,
             Instead, surprising even himself, he quit his only
             Paying job, gave up his apartment and boarded a bus
             For London, Ontario, where his father and mother
             Used to live and work – after their devastating divorce
            (Or had Stew told me both of them had died in a plane-crash?)       

                                                                              *

               But when i was in London in 2007
            (For no other reason than that i had some cash to spare
             Or wanted to see how that town compared to its namesake
             Or just to attend the first night of an art-show to which
             I’d been mailed an invitation – oddly, since i don’t go
             Usually to such events, but i thought this one might fit
             Into my doggy explorations of smart backwaters
             Before i die), i found no trace of a Stewart Galenza
             Either in the phone-book or in the streets.

                                                                          I thought he might
             Appear at the exhibition-opening, and i thought
             i saw a bearded version of him chatting up a girl;
             But, when i interrupted their shiraz-sipping schmoozing,
             It turned out that they were Bob and Jill who had never heard
             Of any Stew Who?

          (from *fatima solagua arterra’s nudes* by Brian Chan, 2015)

         One hundred chickens, a dozen pigs they send
         our glazed hearts out to farm . days at loss, rum
         nights. Hill side squatters unfurl banners, Let a thousand
         poppies bloom.   
                                           Patria scare crowy guards
         have their orders : sheep for wolfing, skin to fault
         pleaders at flood gate can wait.

         Landscape shopping ? carpet like ornament to hang
         glide | here front galleries house no Art, though so
         you know : wall graffiti eyes follow every plank
         sandals cross.                 

                        Hugging titles mask heads turn on frog    
         testosterone . throat cuts stagger into dump rivers,
         on to other people’s cause ways.
                Outside the rib cage stomach settlers allow
         sucks on the fate treasury if we help . fold small
         victory cigars.

                                            *                                     
                           \ So our breasts clutch faith . plate     
         hard to hold serve, betting everything.
                                           Like this our barrels thirst
         stuff brew, bulb versions screw.           
     
                                \ Not much else . could leave
         you the least bit curious ? Go back! Foreshore
         gifts let drown. Natures roam . herd rider, ocean
         broker.
                                                    – W.W.

         LESSING

        *BUT, deep dung, Lessing don’t give a fuckin fly
        (His perverse version of a Canuck-learnt curse):
         Given his luck, he’ll always crash into things,
      But also through and beyond them, his wings then bruised but
         Their feathers intact, ever ready for more
         Routine hazards arising from outside him
         But, rising within, for less of the same old.

          (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)

                                                            

                                  "She used to point to it, and say, ‘This thing
                                   happening again, but you get use to it after
                                  the first three four times. Is a damn nuisance
                                  though’.”    – VSN, Miguel Street (1971)
                                                                                     
                                                                                                                                   
                         While her parents gathered first thoughts
          what ‘hegemony’ means, Evelin A. would check
          the public library . take out / Who am I here?  How
          do I prosper? / the Jane Austen accounts.
                                    *Most actors failed her ‘dinner
          conversation’ | moves fast forward on young grass
          belly goat did not presume.

          For neighbour Ramoo J. looking work / with “No
          money, No love” top literacy / liquor rafting made him
          half . the man.

          Our village romancier could show you virtue     
          drawings from the days : uniform school girls
          cycle home as corks in long pants pop; this Letts
          diary conviction – limit public kissing to the zoo.

                                        +

               Until ‘Country ‘n’ West’ radio waves hit estate 
          fellas hadn't a clue | match handlers picked cane
          field flower, water lily vice.
                                                          *We couldn’t wait
          for cymbals ‘n’ blessings to end . get up hot out
          satin bridal covers. La Parfaite Harmonie.

                                        +    

                  Finger letting Mozart . our Austen guide
         girl practiced scales, glissando island exits.

                      *Over There her first . double deck, knight
         shivers / NO, Oh yes yes yes / prompted blue Par
         Avions back for church step, paling chat.

                                         What happening there, Hat?
         calls, ciel à côte | palate rinsing too, you could
         argue . swab, pierce all souls.
                                                                – W.W.

             WILDROSE SPROUTS ACORN

             This vine, plaiting itself into the trunk
             of an oak in the hope of adding
             its thorn strength to the tree’s empire
            (or tree’s strength to its own empire)
             so surrenders its roses
             its stem’s fibre, its seed’s pattern of fire.

            (from “Fabula Rasa” by Brian Chan, 1994)

             
               
             But Stew, so far, found ‘God’ a trendy inconvenience.
          In this respect, our non-believer was as gullible
          As a follower of / subscriber to some insurance-
          Policy, whether of distant papal indulgences
          Guaranteeing passage through Paradise’s narrow gates
          Or of Bible-bound redemption-tithes as tax-exemptions.

                                                *

          Stew couldn't couldn’t see that a denial of divinity
          Might be a denial of all creativity too,
          Including his own, and Creativity was a much
          Touted club he needed to belong to, since he couldn’t
          Belong to any other, except this or that beehive
          Of drones, queens and other lotus eaters

                                                 *

         And those buzz-cages of pleasure-seekers were beginning
         To disgruntle him, even as he gulped down their cheap beer
         Or was grinding up against and into some drunk girl’s flesh

                                                *

            But he didn't let his beer-sex nights disturb his ‘day-job’
         - A term he liked, as it proved him a Suffering Artist
         Making compromises in the service of his Real Art.
         But for Real Art’s sake too, one day he would (have enough cash
         To) walk away from APT’s D&G computers for good
         - For good but for what good he couldn’t yet quite imagine,
         Although sometimes – flicking through some glossy magazine he
         Had helped illustrate;   or wandering through an Ikea maze
         Seeking a particular energy-saving light bulb

          (from *fatima solagua arterra’s nudes* by Brian Chan, 2015)

           

        The salmon revelers might be first to panic . midstream
        scrambling for gill, mount protectors.
                                                        This is what I've always
        feared, this facialist zoomed / recalling grandma days
        on the island / from garden manicures, our lagahoo
        own ways.

        Blood trace in the palm ? from scratch, the carrion 
        keeper steupsed ! turning back gold fish coming
        up from piss pots under. Consider yourself
        blessed.

        Wave anticipating . brow ridge servers wipe, 
        rebalance trays of flute ablution | like nothing
        level clattering could ever cross . bite look
        away! addiction here.
                                           ~

                         Blank in waters fresh v salt . finish    
        walls protest, Enough we don’t get paid to tape
        fast rabbit lappings, head cap twists.
                         Root all you want in time ? the wary
        peloton reels in the clear lung blaster. Straight lines!
        clock starters warn, You weave, teeth grind | grid
        confined.

                                           ~

                         \ Last chance at dragon . play ? so break   
        away; leave butterfly chest thumps for the catch
        dispatch crew.
                               \ Contain vessel cleared, so swing
        stern Go . leash, walk the dog | with dignity back
        in rope braids for you some bind combs hot.
                                                   Aie aie . oh monsoon
        forming | thigh dams lock, thoughts ‘n’ prayers.
                                               
                                                             – W.W.

         QAT

          *BUT she was set on getting him to outgrow            
          Himself:   either that or she'd kick his con out - 
          Which she finally did, not too long after
        Coming home and finding him sprawled out naked under
          Her domed skylight, his eyes closed like some sacré
          Sonnensucher’s (she’d seen enough of that bunch
          When she was in that halfway-house in München)

          And with her Mandela book under his knees!
          Sun-fading her sofa again was one thing,
          Disrespecting Africa was another:
        Wake up and get your nasty balls offa my clean chair!

             (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)

            
                       *In a part of the solar system where they
         shouldn't be . report our universe cell chargers / fore
         head counting variants / with labels to mark altitudes
         at which migrant strains rim over . regenerate.

                  They harbour stable orbit homes . these stars,
         ideal for our island / oxtied to memory ploughs, cane
         strip rut / assuming they’d want to bottom sync line
         chipping, plan their next move from here.

         Ground up, blue on green heart pounding, like geese  
         flight pattern how we’d welcome alien lights . ring
         finger tests. Not that we’re in any position to grant
         land permits.                        
                                    *Our yearn designers, slanting to man
         Friday nights with gay beach turtles, swear they could
         word mince the shell . like arctic whales sea warmings.

                                          Still, if out there you/they can 
        read this . at the Enter Pin point try Fireball_Find.

                                                Set down deep breath! blood   
         stream quiet; key strike babies / scrolling keeps us
         up all night / in cicada cradles wipe, wrap . starry
         through port systems Send | back space, no . oh God
         tracking.

                                                                       – W.W.

   
        LESSING

         Losing it with thoughtless tossing of its dice –
        *AS THOUGH dice were akin to the blindly dropped
        Or impatiently flung unimportant things
     (But all objects aspire and demand to be portents)
        Which he has strewn behind him, without minding
        That he might have to turn around and find them
        Yearning to be as vital as obstacles,

        Toe-stubbers and foot-trippers and head-thumpers
        And other discarded near-thoughts left lying
        Around disguised as shoes, iron-weights or gobs
      Of butter with enough time to rehearse their new roles

         (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan) 

   
      
          But you can take the boy out of the confessional, yet
       Can't take …et cet.    So, as regards Duelle and Queen Mona,
       Stew finally confessed to me that it was a mistake
       To consider Good and Evil as two independent
       Forces forever in conflict, as they had before seemed

                                                                     ~

       He wasn't quite ready to see them as two currents
       Connected to an authority-source higher than both,
       But swallowed his own text’s hint that they could work together
       Towards some point even they had not been given to know.

                                                                     *

       In this sense, a not normally speculative Stew guessed
      That Evil was integral to the world’s ecology
      (As far as he could fathom that fashionable term with
      Its purist reek enticing even the worst polluters).
      And with that realisation came a self-consciousness,
      A watching, as though from above himself, of that self’s own
      Wantings and doings and gettings and losings and screw-ups.

                                                                     ~

         So in Stew's psyche was planted, it might be said, a seed
       Which, within the right atmosphere of readiness, would sprout
       And root and grow into a spreading tree of awareness
       Of his partnership with that wider ecology known,
       By its thousand names, all translations of the One, as God.

     (from *fatima solagua arterra’s nudes* by Brian Chan, 2015)

                                                                          
                                                    "…wheat field, swath of light, violet
                                                     stains, the night someone wiped her hands on."
                                                             - Ishion Hutchinson, Second Return

             
         Passages rite . cased in the head / who hears who
         cares ? on the plane train play platform / knot
         tight the scarf, scroll your bewares.

         Gauge what distance keeps anxieties dry . how lava    
         issues fold as morning cold shower runs | flip
         the omelet quick before it burns.

                      The pet couch, trust gets you used        
         to tunnels, light mirage | one day ~ that leap,
         the cleave through custom, arms air kiting ~ tuck
         legs extend, polar like flag planting.

                     Inside your storm saviours tour, feel 
         Sorry . mate gap fill. Ten, twelve years on slices
         thin / fingers stall, tip dust / faith clasp like
         child to feed.
                                                            And oak beam
         ceilings curb until, doubts swung, joint hips make
         room | release . restart OK.

                                             +

                 *Sun clock dings, now who was it ? ordered 
         pawns to go / gambits open fixed wing chest
         pain endings, kills confirmed / off line each grace
         state waits . what a drip drip.             
                         Range, moon walk the square . fresh
         Queen | Rien pour rien . time liens.

                                                                 - W.W.

             CHARON

            *NOW closing his eyes and surprising himself
             By actually sinking into a kind
             Of sleep, one conscious of its own shallowness,
           Charon sees Pablo’s Reading Girl in the rocking-chair
             His mother used to sink into at tea-time,
             Either because she is actively yearning
             For her Chineeman to bring some chocolate or

             For baby to done born and lef she in peace.
             In this vision he senses the roots of his
             Insoluble sadness locked to his mother’s

             (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)

             
         Wide in front flat screen vacuum eyes bag dreading
         the metamorphose . nerve of arms up linking dark
         matter / some common show faith stage / while crop
         heads dry rub myth backs.

                  But See, at any chance they snake ring you,    
         any egg lay . stray beyond skirt luck boundaries;
         spread feather curious.
                                     Dorsal like snapper new to river
         plates, flappy breath signals our wish for pouch
         friendly pelicans | half empty . they’ll assume.

                      *At prayer sites, in brushed cow postures
         we choose handlers to whack any encroaching swamp
         inkhead | wells kept under cabbage sleeve . peel
         perfect for receiving. 

                                               +

                      *At night soldier face spouse fucking . barely
         a peep | these aren’t those Demerara slope windows,
         ol’ house hot airing . cupidity shift sticks. 
                         Which makes for lasting not long swells,
         but See, pardna ships trade best in crates marked ours,
         theirs | though who knows, plight ‘n’ appetite could
         alter
                              As ocean rise fire blood on testing
         course / thirst, vine versions you’re supposed to savour /
         there must be drawers . knives I know, right? tables
         timing fate somewhere.
                                                              – W.W.

         LESSING

         All in nature, with every unconscious breath,
        Are killers, with fangs either snarled or filed down,
        With pocketed fists, whether naked or gloved,
      Gripping smug switchblades of blindness assumptively set.
        But murder as universal principle
        Sparking exchanges of energy does not
        Console Lessing in his creeping awareness

        Of his own conspiring with murder’s régime,
        And, if he heeds this bad faith, one day he’ll have
        No choice but to cut off its breath (his bad faith’s:
      The régime’s bad breath will take its own foul time to fade):
        Then, at least, it will be seen (though probably
        Not said) that all have a choice in the matter

           (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)

           So it is no surprise that, finally, Stewart Galenza
       A determined and determining god of potboiler
       Resolutions and fates, should change the encounter between
       His Duelle and his equally fantastic Queen Mona
       From a hate-lust cat-fight (lesbian sex so safe, he thought)
       Into an amicable meeting (in a hotel-lounge
       Or cheap café, whatever, who cared) of ‘matching’ angels
       Entertaining and plotting new strategies for ‘saving
       The world’, from its injustices, with mischief of their own
       Righteousness.

                                              *

                              Which one was Good and which Evil no longer
       Mattered:  Stew even designed two new uniforms for them:
       Naked Duelle got herself inked into a black pants-suit
       And Queen Mona dumbed down into blue-and-pink underwear
       Which Superwoman herself wouldn’t have been caught dead in.

                                              ~

         But despite the cowardly kitsch of Stew’s graphicnovel,
       We can see how his pussyfooting flatfooted approach
       To depicting issues of female power and desire
       And transgression led him to tilt beyond the simplistic
       And simple-minded duality of Good/Bad fictions
       - His enemy, his own dulled mind, become the sharp ally

                                                                  *

       Not that Stew would have admitted to caring anything
       About ‘duality’, ‘spirituality’ and such:
       After all, he was a no-shit Allbirdy boy (though born
       In repressed München of Polish-Portuguese parentage),
       And it was years, thank God, since he had been an altar-boy

      (from  *fatima solagua arterra’s nudes* by Brian Chan, 2015)