Category: Uncategorized

                                     

                                      “A body like you must learn to follow the shadow
                                        of an ant through the needle's eye of duty.” 
                                         – Wilson Harris, Heartland (1964)

            Fibres of integrity degrade; our ocean walls 
            could sigh ‘n’ crumble . scramble every toil^tiered
            towner deep inland, pulling straw ‘n’ bull.
                                                        Admin will swear next
            time . spine over riding posture | done! with bulb^like
            face hanging on shape^shift lines; spectacles of fabric
            sharing mind.

            Doctors till now dread trouble shooting Caliban
            criss^crassness | one ceramic chip whoa! check
            the dinner plates . cracks hiding; bamboo wrong fit,
            see our Cave Man Hosting Guide.

            Mass cells?  they tried tried^plant cure – pro^folk 
            who coming home assumed assumptions cared to play;
            whose arteries / margin to metroplex /  logged so
            who crop nurse need?

                                                  *

            Coastal roofs we rent ?  tenant customs undeclared :
            the heritage IV drip poles, grip^romance; Gao Ming
            store keepers flossing; our Station Supt. waving khaki
            hand gun applications.
                                                        \ iPhone vibrate, new
            message . fossil love cassava, purpose calculating.
            Not any time soon, G'wan ! crank yuh moves bad
            world gyurl.

                                                                – W.W.

 

             

             

 

                   ORACLE

                   If you feel this chart a blank slate,             
                   know that it has been prepared for us
                   to draw the moment of our mind on.

                   Should it seem a near-empty bowl,
                   know that it is designed not to leak
                   a single drop of your molten gold.

                   And if you find it floats in a free state,     
                   know that every border has been crossed
                   and every tribe challenged so that we might

                   begin to map our memory beyond
                   any nostalgia for one mother-
                   tongue or other investment of cowards. 
                 
                   …………………………….
                                                               ……………………..

               (from “The Gift of Screws” by Brian Chan, 2008)

 

 

  
          
            Fields planted up, out drained . work hands cup
            coin^like coordinates for paradise landings; breast
            vows that won't till^death main stay | Wait, who
            install you on my phone ? Jah Blesse, battery
            low . life fat consigning.
                                                         Corrugated for roof
            drip basin catch . till the next foetus kick pain
            bearers could erect^must block | thigh wary, swat
            aside blood wigglers underbiting.

                          / Or trade closet walls for an aircraft 
            hangar – file glider paths heron^like in space;
            give up the forest address, web spider wait for fire
            fanning mate. 
 

                                                ^

                    \ On second thought we hired Graciela, a start 
           over migrant . serve hostage from los polvos days
           bra ‘n’ panty parceling.
                                                Paid to polish shoes, our
           feet now shod; sweep around the sand pile fortress
           plan . pass^fail tempers warming with the years;
           the gods we pay ! topology of dice sustaining.

           Stuck in lymbostasis rules in extremis swing;
           our searchers strike . shovel^like validating trust
           in mortem metallum.
                                             Hair lines cross thread,
           beard head coverage end | bend tekking Happy
           now? so rivers flow; neighbours watching.

                                                                        -W.W.

 

 

           
              
                                 [ In mem.  Fernando Botero . 1932 – 2023 ]    

           BUD MOLSON'S WHITE DUNCE CAP

 

           But feathers facing winds of prairies or peaks are soon 
           blown off, as pebbles (or Injuns) in (poisoned) downstreams
           are washed away.   Molson’s majority of cowards,
           of beaten and beating-up buddies and dogs and guns,

           can erase you in any back-alley of your choice,
           not so much for your look but your voice, the sounds you make
           which slot you fast as one more Klaatu from outer space,
           an uncalled-for nuisance to that final product, life

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

                  (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

                                

                 Just as i, scaling my seventieth year's peak, wanted
          That woman, that bursting Radica, that princess turned queen-
          Mother, that legendary near-mythical Queen Mona,
          what i now don’t want is to serve you, reader, one more dish
          Of guys looking at chicks (which mon semblable Godard proposed
          As one reading of flics – and, no doubt, of much Western art –
          Another being his unconsolingly catholic
          Death in action – the kind of unflinching clarté the French
          – Qui d’autres?, absolument, leur terroir va sans dire, sans doute –
          Excel in)

          My invaluable ‘sphinx without a secret’;   my dime-
          a-dozen muse:   i found her beauty as impossible
          To bear as its power-mode must have been for her colleagues.
          How had Stew undermined and overcome that explosive
          Hurdle – in himself?     Could this old man, no Woody Allen,
          Hope to cope?    Not a hope in hell.

                                             *

             You may say that all i am saying is that, at my age,
          Passion and vision should meet as cousins kissing only,
          Each too retardedly delusional to risk spawning
          That most moronic oxymoron, passionate vision.

          Yet hope :   four-letter word.   With which others did i convince
          Radica to come with me for coffee?   – at Ratsmoolahs,
          The nearby ‘Ethiopian’ café –  Oh, she laughed, one
          Of mine!   Favourites or properties? i joked.   Both of course!

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

 

 

 

                                                                          
                                            “To be the child of wretched ambition …of desired
                                              greatness, the child of paradise, hell.”
                                                       Wilson Harris, Companions of the Day
                                                                             and Night” (1975)

 

                 Measured by traders in the chamber deadly
                 so . any spark could trigger panic chutes as out
                 of reach squeeze gaps appear | manners we deserve,
                 the blinds we’d recurve . Look at us now!   

                 Here's a prospector's lunch splash I have crossed so
                 many rivers cutting up his meat; his paddle blade on tax
                 holiday – felling trees; mineral pit composting
                 earth like sacrifice after the hunt.

                 There’s a Starbucks in our City Mall; escalator
                 up from roadside hang stalls housing others | sip;
                 cradle each moustache cup, pot luck steaming
                 like from teeth ‘n’ nail care; pesticide alert
                 mute.

                                                    ^  

                 Test the island line extensions – from our Naipaul’s
                 Negros, “hair done in little pigtails, a Medusa
                 head” | not root threatening, though fear from all
                 reports like asphalt wavy in the heat.

                                                             How Hardutt ramps          
                  Yuh muddah cunt! Who you think U R?  marks
                  plantation carrier, latter day device; chest wall
                  safe ‘n’ wells performing | home land pending.

                                                                               – W.W.

 

             

               

               

 

               I SAY

               A man does not talk out of the back of his head, 
               and true books are not birthed from frightened shadows’ wombs
               nor out of the cracks in the cliff-climbing of past
               tyrants whose hungry ghosts demand they be filled in,
               but from ‘a feeling about the world which creates
               a need that nothing satisfies’ except essays
               at ‘the final poem of fact in the language
               of fact not realised before’, of an Ireland,
               say, that, green as it is, grows ‘greener than it is’
               - for unwittingly containing green Guianas
               as well as they always bore their own green Others.

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

                    (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

               
                                          
                                                      

 

              
            Spiders gave up on webs long after the assumption,
            Anansi #1 silk trade suspect . like vagina helpers
            home accounts can’t completely ignore; or text
            rich in tell^tale idiot sounding fury.

               * Straighteners face pale notice – l’horreur! for 
            this you’ve fallen ? the oldest civilization in the look;
            hair braided in forest virtue, connectivity.

                    \ Saint Coitus silent, snap decisions could leave 
            flesh grid^like . lady days, night duress. There are
            blue^chipping options bailar bailar!  

                                                         ~ | ~

            Last stand on earth^like mothers post how cleft
         + groin show care – deer spiral antler^like on point
            along faith inbreeding paths, lizard throat puff
            watch.

                 * The unthinkable pressing up against     
            heart timid at goodbyes . from veil^sash ties
            the dragon loose > curving flame strike vows
            make clear of pain.

                        \ How right they were : our desert fevers      
            too late time relieves; death so gentle thanks
            one ‘n’ all for coming | rest assured . cape
            wraps swirl Olé! life^stops to heal. 

                                                                 – W.W.

       

 

             

       
                    THE NEWEST TESTAMENT DUE

 
                    Yes, extract the fine from the gross, but
                    refinement is no funeral-flag.
               There can be too much of even Less
               Is-More:  look, your belly is bulging from it.
               Reduction, renunciation, sacrifice:
               these are addictive hooks that can shred your veins

                    if you’re in love more with the idea 
                    of Death than with making more life-space
             - by throwing out dead forms, and letting more seeds
               into life’s womb.

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

                   (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

 

 

             
            What are you up to?    – she snapped, stroking her belly, as if
         To underline the inaptness of my uppityness
            Ignoring her touch-me-not righteousness, I asked now if
         She was not Stew’s partner Radica – or was it Mona?
            At once she shed her heated mask and put on a cool smile
         Whose insincerity was so awe-inspiring, i knew
         I was already half-dissolved by the careless acid
         Of confident beauty only shrewd pregnant mothers leak.

             It's the opportunistic intelligence of certain 
         Women which drew me to them like a bee to the nectar
         Of shy flowers (for, yes, it is the shyest of soul-plants
         That sprout their essence-seeds into the rarest person-blooms),
         Else like a fly to an open wound over which honey
         Has been poured to both seal off the gash and speed its healing:
         The fly for his part can't divide the blood from the honey

                                                  ^

                                             But Mona was so lovely-looking, 
         Not only was i ‘smitten’, but it seemed ungracious not
         To fall with her apple, sorry, that’s the best i can do:
         I can speak love but can’t write it, can’t prove it in writing.

         I about-turned and followed Radica back to the art 
        And tried to see the pictures through her sentimental gaze
        (The most sharp-witted people can adore the blandest shite)
        But i was more concerned about her pregnancy-arcked back
        Which had to hurt from all that bearing of watery weight.
        Waddling with feet spread wide, and sliding around akimbo,
        She seemed at once a seasoned sailor and a frail sailboat
        Adrift beyond a hint of harbour on a windless day
        – Though i might have before thought her more a storm-proof liner
        Had Stew then proven her sardine-can-opener iceberg?

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

 

 

         
      
            One rain event lasting half a day can wash
            away that village of beginnings | only rodents ignore
            the treachery of ground^shift toppled trees . trunk
            pointers exposed, undressable.

            One island plan : fish loaf^like feed them globe 
            destiny ‘n’ fear; + trust in the ocean’s vast receivership,
            currents rigged to snag . bag pack^flight testers.

                     \ Old dog you ! at your age shag^grooming
            lambs . handling charge back handed.                   

            Paddy drying servers wait . worlds apart, menu 
            cards for thinkers at linen tables leaving tips
            for passage ways they really liked : those stainless
            rice bowl bearers; cherry pick dessert.

                                                ^

            Top obstinate, fail camouflage; bed come ‘n’ go
            fedupness | them^us inside chest barrels churn
            tumor causing . clusters nest or nation.

                   \ Alright, alright . we'll sort this planet next
            time surface checking.
                                   We have other stops to make, pings
            from natures forming . friends you hope to see
            again . Earth warning; work. 
                                                                            – W.W.

.
         

             

           

 

              CRABWAYS

             Straightforward in action and speech, you reject
                   my crablike approach of analogies
                                             as a cartload of jade fragments
                               that cannot be considered real gems.

             But not even yer literalist redneck
                   is as direct as he thinks:  even he
                                        has metaphor-dogs barking through
                              his tight-lipped pretensions:  the complaints

             of the Blues of wailing singers and guitars.
                   In Rocky’s Blues Bar in Red Deer one night,
                                        a drunk boy bothered to tell me
                             ‘This place is a cage of crocodiles.’

             ………………………
                                            ………………………………

                   (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

                                      

 

              
                     Stop by our harbour . ocean respite made simpler                      
              than ports in Mexico, you’ll marvel, cringe | a ghost
              might tap the shoulder, Looking to purchase ? phone
              minutes over day dream.

                                    / In cell charge bathrooms the big
              mystery won’t trickle. Dhanmarie kept a henna
              hedge round her sister till this man swept in her
              yard . landscaping; tattoo shouldering.

                       / At unRead quarters help^believe hands stamp
              sacrifice coupons | numbers tulips shoes in routing
              order . who instead wouldn’t catch^snap lobsters
              mating in the mud? 

                                                  *

              Pins stick . as millenniums pass pirate birds 
              north south fathoming . the cast^about of couples
              getting off on 24hr text platforms.

                              / Timbre fallen, virus speckled spines
              long^haul cross pipe lines . false front force
              ripe dominions.   

                        / Deserts would trade any wind not to post
              aerials now; pant index heats the waggle
              dance de résistance | our beau, J. Crow?  oh,
              you know . feather preening, in no hurry.

                                                                          – W.W.

 

                     

           

             

 

 

              I SAY

              Neither nations nor books need hark back to Moses
              or the reign of Isabella or James the First.
              Nor need all pills be prescribed by Hippocrates;
              if mine resonate with your distemper, take them!
              You choose what is your good from a vast spread of goods.
              To settle for one recipe or expertise
              as gold is like being proud that you eat the same
              porridge every day because it is the one food
              your poor toothless grandmother could afford or chew;
              or like being a caged bird taught to squawk one joke.
              Joker myself, chameleon, husbandman, I stick
              my tongue out, and so trap bugs, taste fruit and spread seeds.

                       (from “Readiness” by Brian Chan, 2013)

 

     
         
          My eyes shifted and glazed over the pictures’ healthiness
          Like that of items in a short Safeway ‘Organics’ aisle:
          They were well packaged with labels describing their content
          And directions for easy use:   fashionably low-fat,
          Tastefully unsweetened and full of ‘natural’ flavours
          i.e. they were yet one more series of Canuck landscapes,
          One of which every home should have to extend its sofa(s)
          Whose culture of ease the pictures’ manufacturer must
          Have worked damned hard to feed and raise like a national flag.

             But this second walk through the mausoleum proved to be
          Not fruitless:   on the way out, i bumped into the round fruit
          Of the belly of a woman on her way in, and sensed
          Right way that she was Astronomo-Kanamono,
          Stewart Galenza’s necessary nuisance, his nemesis,
          His hubris’s comeuppance, his humbling no-reason-why
          Deliverance from the infantilism of his lusts
          And the utter unutterably crass kitsch of his art.

                                             *

          Yet, lazily, i almost let the moment’s fruit-bowl pass       
          But, instead, grasped her arm as though she or i were going
          To fall, and she gave me a look of slightly amused scorn
          As i apologised more than once for my clumsiness
          Before introducing myself and asking if, by chance,
          She knew of Stewart or Stew Galenza, another artist.

             I was brusque, but my question at an art-museum seemed, 
          To me, not out of place.    So the woman’s reaction was
          A shock:   she wrenched my arm free of the clasp of my fingers
          And pushed me off, while at the same time adjusting her hair,
          Her eyes two coals, one cold, one still a glowing ember
          (A split common to every mask i’ve failed to see behind).

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

 

 

                                                                        
                                               “…the scales of musical light began
                                                      to darken and in their place grew dark
                                                       humps and fins”
                                                           -  Wilson Harris, Heartland (1964)

               
            Already here . value^stops at consumer loading 
            docks soon resizing + Avenues where If you see people!     
              Yes, wonder how our bed stalls trade . Mondays
            knocking couldn’t come faster.

            Sometimes in motion round the world cravings
            wash ashore in bubble wrap | we started using
            sunshades since the find^remove flame currency
            + Gwan da side swipes.

            iPlumb Depts. offer crevice sluice tools; they staple
            honorary chips on foreshore heads, pave back
            work habit strain . the ankle part of our future
            mending still.

                                                 ^    

                   \ Old cane^banana feelers tried . fearing
            for each other; field power cuts wouldn’t
            allow stretch bonding | most nights they prayed
            love over life would spill grow even.

                           \ Watch how events flash . now through 
            memory drive account; pregnancy uncouples,
            forest first feet pause sensing | this shuffles everyone,
            sources everything.

                                                         – W.W.

  

               

           

             

 

               THE RECEIVER

                He is the end of the longest road
                    to what he is ready to receive.
               No Buddha, nor any Christ, no God
                    except as through all of us IT breathes.
               But to what degree of consciousness
                     of the spiritus within the spine?
               Till what possesses us we possess,
                     not Love’s realm, only theirs | ours | yours | mine.

                ……………………
                                                       ……………………

               (from “Readiness”, by Brian Chan, 2013)