FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN

                                                                             

                                                                     
                                                                "The ones who were there…the ones who even now
                                                              don’t believe the world is round…who keep going
                                                            and going just to see how it will end… Oh yeah.”
                                                                  ‒ “Seven Beauties,”  Lina Wertmuller  (1975)

             
           Our space windows east west facing years of home
           leave launch strain . hold. No No granules slipping through
           the mesh cause abrupt scuttles – like peacock shows called
           off . default the pregnancy of pipe line cutters, mud flat feet.

                    Balls bearing loose . our island Eh Eh Homo flies
           oracles of billions to spread for / done with . our fate
           tomorrow hides / whose side ? back hard luck rides.
           
                         Elephant white lights strobe . stage parts rear
           up down tier; flower acts get played to levitate from cane
           field slash . wound tight bear.

                                                      ~

                                               Aliens from time to time appear,
           scent of sea bed dead cast off . sheet change refusing.
                                      * You think you have it bad here?  they
           needle . thread blight | camped out near the seawall, torn
           plastic suits like they on some mission.

                            Once the fins of desperation stalk seed off  
           shore, poor soil removers leave us alone > voyeurs through
           scorn tower slats.
                ✓ Flaps tight . vitals charged for all night orbit / source           
           coding crew / through a blaze of stars opening our axis gods
           go and moon landed come throughest truth! right back.
                                                               
                                                                                   – W.W.   

   

                 

               

                                            

             
             LESSING

             Of mere liberty, the right to stir and shift
             At will, to resist being moved or removed
             So as to choose our own enslaving shiftings,
           Thanks very much and leave us in and into our cells,
             Lessing imagines those gods serving God’s Will
             ITs Elohim still shaping Heaven and Earth
             (Resting every seventh age from the mistakes

             They would not erase

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

  

           

           I forgot to say Astronomo-Kanamono worked,
        Nay, slaved away for APT Advertink.   She never once shirked
        In her rȏle as Deputy Director of the Tink Tank,
        APT’s most abstract department, but a zone where no one shrank
        From entertaining the most left-field concept from any
        Source, clients included. 

                                               ~

                                                 The department’s head was Benny
        Asher, a keen but placid Zionist who posed no threat
        To Radica’s other-Semitic verve – at least not yet.
        He gave her enough latitude to make enough mistakes
        To counter her ‘brilliant managerial skill that makes
        Me look good’:   so he often praised her to her face

                                                                             
                                                               ** 

           Yep, Asher was a smart sonofagun, but he was not
        Exactly what he believed himself to be:    a hot shot.
        But it is not a novel notion that everyone has
        To fool himself.   Item:     he was cool because he liked Jazz;
        Item:   a play was great because his seat was expensive;
        Item:   his knowledge of French Literature was extensive
        Because he had read a translation of Diabolique;
        Item:   he couldn’t be a type because he was unique.

                                               ~

           But none of that’s to say Asher was not a nice fellow:
        All his colleagues, including Radica, thought him mellow
        And level-headed, even in the most hectic of times.
        He was kindly and would entertain all your little crimes
        Of imagination against Good Taste:   a clever dog,
        He led a crew of curs he was too smart to ever flog.
        He’d slog through piles of their perfectly good ideas before
        Choosing one to ‘clean up’ like dogshit.

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

 

 

           
        Time over tossed . bottles turn up on our shores, tidings
        moss glad to part waves . offer proof we deserve longer spells
        of dignity | knife to apple shine core rot, the throat of sheep
        wolf bleeders . deviate the mean. 

                 Near last rest station Empire lips stitching up might            
        trade debt words | Estate droplet discharge . mite bites
        grave cough informing. 

                     Blues essential for latex rites intel us . chess              
        clock calm  >  canoes away ! up stream from candidate win
        winds; canticleers in cracking pitch trying out cantankerous
        licks  Ah ee ah ee ah.

                 If church bells rang up each new virus loss . iCare         
        Supreme prefigures they’d be ventilator count laps ‒ nine ?
        ten minutes apart, then fresh tongue toll | we’d cancel Mass
        Prayers . circles gather at the beach watch sand castles
        occupy child fingers.

        Such planet bane serves notice : feeders to sea, rivers / bed dry  
        particles like nothing before discrete / soon could commission
        Reaper rake > leaves composting, low tide litter hell | off
        the air complicity, heaven hears.
                                                          What next . might Dios mio!
        spread . above us night day canopy lock ? grid the papaya;
        on point sharp flute the flame we keep.
                                                                          – W.W.

 

         

           

 

 

             
         A RUSTY FERRY, THE ORSON 

         The wide moment, dead as far as motion stops,
         Is still breathing like the now unforced waters
         Of a pregnant angst lapping at the boat’s sides.

         There are a few attenders to the rhythm
         Of this breathing:  two blooming women themselves
         Inlets and ferries of new life within them;
       An infant Buddha sucking in his listening’s milk;
         An old man, knowing he is about to stop,
         Keen at last to belong to that pulse of air
         Which he feels most of Earth’s sojourners ignore

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

 

 

           
        As such, Radica was an anxious dog guarding a bone,
        Or a mellifluous meretricious dog when she had
        To grab a bone from or through you:   her will was ‘iron clad’,
        As she herself proudly told her cronies.  To grasp the gist
        That, in her most unique of lusts, she was as commonplace
        As she wanted to be seen not to be – was not a grace
        That had as yet taken root and blossomed in Radica’s
        Garden of consciousness

                                              ~

 

                                                                     ‘Don’t let anything
        Stop you’, her mother had often told her.   ‘Get what you want,
        Doesn’t matter what.   Don’t let anyone tell you you can’t.
        For every pauper princess, dere’s a millionaire king!’

                                             *

 

        But Mona was no monster, no foaming-at-the-mouth cur
        Out for the kill.   Enemies were only significant
        As stiff rungs on life’s ladder; otherwise, irrelevant.

                                             ~

 

           ‘Irrelevant’ was one of Radica’s favourite words,
        Words she collected like defensive weapons or like birds
        She kept in a cage but sometimes let out to flash around
        Some room (not at home) of colleagues (mostly).    She liked the sound
        Of their wings as they swished past the whitened bars of her teeth,
        Liked to witness their effect on the muscles underneath
        The tight skin of the polite faces of often dismayed
        Or jealous White boys and girls stunned by the charm she displayed
        As she savaged the demotic expectations of their
        Tribe’s determination to mean nothing, to never scare
        Lest they in turn be scared (or scare off business)

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

                                               

         

 

                                                                                   
                                                           Eva thinking about Him, fit  
         bits up on the ceiling, limbs condemned to weave below; dishes
         candles conversation in some sink of form . cream crop
         contactless.
                                                                   A brand of intimacy so
         obdurate ? from which ‘stillery this burn . down on dry
         champagne please!  brain dog weary.

        *One sheet cheat act next door wakes up a killer . kettles
          whistle | doll cloth vendors snap . hurry the hell shack home.

              As lettuce heads short memory . iPhone face minimizing             
          sends belief : the not fair biometrics of prayer knees; how
          bovine . low branch leaf nibbling must seem.
                   Breast probe of sneak up tumor, mousse ball of bitchy
          fate | night curl tights . even as cricket licks off hibiscus lips
          persist.
                       And body check that appetizer . his season sweat
          sheen tabling Ciao! mate plays  >  hooks at your goal tend net
          worth; the brush fire siren pass ? heat trap release.

          The sky cloud plein air ocean . stream low concern | its start        
          menu chalks what makes each day special : half a life
          cycle beak billed . rim care self serve; light wait, mercy
          crossing . wherever you turn.

                                                      – W.W.

 

             

               

         

 

              LESSING

         
          Was a Canajun band, nuh?  that used to swear
          You’ve got your troubles, I’ve got mine, as Lessing
          And other soaks would together sing-agree
        In the Albert-&-Tird place run by Whuh-he-name, Ting,
          The Coolie boy, maan, who buy the PartyMan
          Rum-shop, install a jukebox and fairy-lights
          And overnight set up with the Smallman Pub.

          There Lessing had spent many nights avoiding
          Going home to Moreen waiting for his tail
          To come ome so that she could drag him to ear
        Whoever was the latest American pastor
          Passing through    

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

 

 

 

 

              But when the guy dropped to the floor, writhing like a cut worm
        Reduced to a curled-up oozing mess in a uniform
        Designed to inspire confidence in Pages’ expertise
        And in its wearer’s self-control, the lady felt her knees
        Jerk forward as if they had a mind of their own that would
        Bend to help her help up the helpless man.

                                                 ~

                                                                            But no such good
        Came of their impulse, for it was staggered by Common Sense
        That whispered a medley of Run! and Satan, get thee hence!
        And Quick! Report his strange behaviour to his bosses and
        Damn, now I’ll be late for dinner, hope Ben will understand.

                                                 *

 

         Ambulance and first-aid kit and even mouth-to-mouth were
       More what-to-do tags that bobbed up to the surface of her
       Mind but were drowned again under the more important need
       She felt to prove what a great thing her cellphone was indeed,
       How magically necessary its modernity,
       How progressive and useful in an emergency.

 

                                                 ~

       But, though the thing often proved a complicated nuisance,
       Like a servant whom she had to end up herself serving,
       It was a godsend, she would swear, with a faith unswerving.
       (She thought she knew how to think and question things, but in this
       Case, she’d paid for the right to blow thinking a goodbye-kiss.)

           Her name was Radica Astronomo-Kanamono
       - Just ‘Mona’ to her friends who couldn’t be bothered to show
       Any respect for her klutzy surname:    why, just to try
       To pronounce the damned thing made them turn their eyes to the sky
       As though to beg God for deliverance from foreigners.

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

 

 

          
                
                                                     "Ganesh Pundit had given up mysticism for
                                                            a long time. He had taken to politics and
                                                             was doing very nicely. He was a minister of
                                                              something or the other in the Government"
                                                                              – "Miguel Street,"  VS N.

           

        You want I curve learn ? flat yield . the knot masseuse, what
        the brain wants.

        In our Gwan Down office chair men pledge . needy feed,
        unlike the serviettes quiet inside preamble rooms not sure
        the desk spread ~ Take ! Not one breath ~ would last . the way
        he always reaching.

        Some sent home pack benchers brood : who plants what now    
        betrayals worming where ?  awake at four Not ever again?
        mouse members sash . cords lower the sky.

                          If only / this prayer you hear / I could remount,     
        boss of base feel strong again . hug big bubby village pride;
        toss ethics to the manatee, oil flame pilots train.
                         As bone dogs scratch our predilections Admin picks    
        a face unripe : trench foot soldiers griping  >  go ribbon food     
        baskets, prod promissory turds; divvy ‘n’ hide poles to plait.
                        Who cares ? what per Custom wringing hands declare; 
        dark light swells . fear, bad actors, All is fair.

        No cross . course practice how we go, cluster set flag      
        falls . you go | won’t go?  molasses to Gwan Dung dry storage
        pace nail straight away.

                                                               – W.W.

         

           

           

 

    

           
        QAT + LESSING

        Had he sensed earlier his Soul’s agendum
        Stamping its urgencies into his person’s
        Urges, Lessing would have grudged and resisted
      Less, or not at all, his fixes and jams, by seeing
        Them all just, rather than unnecessary.
        Sensing his soul’s urgings came too late: by then
        Pique had become his chronic hairshirt, his wont.

       *QUOI, il encore Catholique?  Qat would half-think
       Sensing a dégoût to his – quoi?  she couldn’t
       Say personage, since ce type-ça was hardly
     Recognisable from moment to moment

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

 

 

    

        Recalling clouds, Raimonde became one, one needing to burst
      Out of its vaporous density.    But feeling (at first)
      That he couldn’t very well pop into song on the job
      (Wordless song at that, in a cage of words) and end up sob-
      bing his swollen-burst cloud-heart out like Mario Lanza
      On acid or Ogden Nash without rhymes for a stanza
      About all nature echoing itself back to itself,
      He didn’t court such chaos while sorting books on a shelf,
      A-to-Z and all that jazz called ‘not spending enough time
      Tending to (smiling at) customers’ in Cooking and Crime
      Or this one seeking Henry Miller in Ailments and Maps.

                                          ~

 

      Such absurdities, corrupt or innocent, were perhaps
      Not worth disturbing but, then at last, Raimonde felt, why not?
      And burst into a scatting sob, a storm of tears and snot.

                                           *

 

         The customer, (or ‘book lover’) whom Raimonde was helping
      To find Tropic of Cancer responded to his yelping
      With mild amusement, as though she had won a surprise-prize
      Being prefaced by a sung slogan (one of those cute lies/
      Fictions without which Society wouldn’t know its name)

                                          ~

 

      But when the google-eyed clerk extended the singing-game,
      of With a dutiful mourning, everything’s coming my
      Way into a wordless waving, lashing out at some fly
      Which only he could see hovering all around his head,
      The book-lover realised something was amiss and said
      Calmly, ‘There, take a deep breath, you’re in Canada now, see’

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

     

                                                                                                                                                                           
                                                                                                                       
                                                                                 

                                                                    "She was a pale-brown woman, about thirty,
                                                                    somewhat plump, and her favourite colour
                                                                  was blue. She called herself Dolly. We used 
                                                                 to see her looking blankly out of the windows."
                                                                                                      -  VSN, "Miguel Street"

                                                                                                                                             
                                                       Quick to draw veil, mark threat              
           our neighbours keep stills of elephant innocence; even when sore
           at bottom volcanos pass quiet quiet, gift roll picks of flowers
           for rectum rectitude. 
                                                            Sun . so plenty spider eating
           shade in tree lime haze; speech free like seed in rage bird
           feeders . zip ties in the bird.

           Morning you break your bread . fruit should night fall;              
           evidencing you scour . the mind our food burnt utensils | stones
           fleece gall peezy squeezy . catch the gaze as statues topple,
           open fly rods refute.

                                                     ~ 

                                
                      Wriggles in the stomach ? only a wish but Boysie 
            swear he snag a halo to casque his head hard.
                      All of a sudden at thirty one he stopping for water
            coconut, he counting chicken spring.
                      No, not power moves, which does blow back exposure
            blows. He scrimping to frontier . spine infection dress flush
            over seas – the speed of flight is not for all the same.

            Off the plane labor pay slips fail to wave . but at least he step!    
            distance on line long pave | while high ‘n’ dry love cramping 
            game Dulcienne (first) put gem ring in her navel (next) rose
            tattoo on breast view . till Eh-eh! everybody Stay home! rubber
            band stretching.    

                                                                 – W.W.

 

             

             

                       

 

 
          MARA

           
          Not that Mara, though a house-trained Guyanese
          Chameleon, has felt any more at home
          In loud Illinois or Brazil than in this
        Anxious secretive ambitious big-citied small town
          *OR IN that big town of George’s where she’d borne
          The diseducation of being born and      
          Reared in a hothouse of brilliant repressives

          Who knew much about the world but little of
          Themselves, only what was required of those selves
          By the demanding phantoms and directors
 

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

 

 

           As he walked about Pages, on its floor of hard concrete
         Underneath his cheap thin-soled shoes, but ‘thinking on his feet’,
         Thinking with his heart and belly and balls about how sweet
         His life’s breath felt that day, despite the toilet’s backed-up crap
         He was ordered to mop up, and despite his handicap
         That made him mistake a customer for a colleague – twice,
         The second time giving that ‘brother’ some jokey advice
         (‘Go buy your annual shampoo, boy:    we can hear the lice!’),
         Only to hear some woman’s cool voice request a book’s price.

                                                   ~

          Despite his appearing (again) stupid, he felt quite spry
          All day (almost), like a cretin with an affinity
          For the simplest things – such as oxygen that makes you high
          If you breathe it in deeply for a long time, or the sky
          At dawn or noon or evening or midnight, grey or blue or
          Black and starry, perfect hunting ground for a pursuer
          Of purity like Raimonde who frequently scanned night-skies
          In search of stars (beyond the few that were blurred in his eyes).

 
                                                   *

            Now in the maze of time and its racers (in which he still
          Managed to savour his flavour of tortoise, if you will
          Risk being cute but won’t go as far as ‘spirit of sloth’),
          Raimonde intuited that, today, his blissful pulse was
          The bouncing offspring of the stare of the witch on the bus
          As it had groaned away in its inexorable rut
          Of a route whose only detour was through the heart and gut
          (Or was it just through his head?) of his lust for something more
          Tactile than the kiss of the midnight Sun, his holy whore

                                                 ~

 

          It was the only time he’d known the Sun as a woman
          Who consumed as she consoled – with a faithfulness no man
          Could match.    Now he, caught in a white-lit White Lit./Art-hothouse
          In Edmofftoff’s hothouse culture, felt like a febrile mouse
          Fecklessly dragging about a trap clinging to his tail,
          The trap of his nostalgia for the time he’d spent in jail
          For that other woman – who’d never speak to him again
          – A nostalgia perverse, disinterring nothing but pain

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