There were Dutch canals and corner shops, dray cart trot hot stand
pipe news; and heads so royal tied, knights picked through sweat
band claims. Sly mongoose under studied bush snake cruise.
You crossed the river by ferry, wondered about the traction on faces
looking up from the stelling. You bought a ticket for the train and
for forest pursuits ̶ down cast off souls risk rafting after lives.
Police men carved clean handsome paths leaving the yard in parade
uniforms. Civil servants worked like lodgers with no next of kin. That
someone wanted you dead happened only on a ridge ̶ Comanche!
On Sunday "classical" and church bells called song and ward
robe to order. Taboo and tassa drums signaled anchor rites passing
bare feet away ̶ long story . loss found new . like root cell divide.
Cicada nights before television and "sex" found guest room I was handy
man for Bertha fat radio tubes, fixing fast Iris eye pass. "Death
Announcements" brought us together as daily bread pulled us apart.
Crime like poor demeanor led to punishment; innocents out sourced
Shakespeare's sonnets for liniment. That sounds so common, strivers
would note, crouching for office, Yardley for class. The not said was felt.
Marijuana was discovered by a gang weeder who chopped his big
toe by mistake and marvelled at blood spots on leaf. Rice cane weed
tree green surround ̶ hard to tell where gnarl knots had sloth in.
With estate duties in memory cues hands moored unwinding sari
vessels and sun set; lowered in flower bowls faith stems for carpel pray
lay. Few stock holds prized the life unroostered. Alieno solo, I swear.
– W.W.
LONSTEIN'S CONVENTION
A washer of the dead is what I am:
I refuse to embalm or embellish.
I give you back these bags as they are ̶ bald
or hairy, purple or pink. Unimpressed,
I peel away their fashionable frills
of lace or blood or creed. But after
I've done washing away their dead serious
superstitions and myths oozing like pus,
the tongue remains their most active organ.
And for every corpse I lay out naked,
there's some mother waiting to have it dressed
and spruced up for a cocktail memorial.
Hopeless. But as I say, I wash, that's all.
(from "Thief With Leaf" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 