for Terence Roberts
I
Like cow down on grass reservation oceans away from ̶ right
click ̶ camera eyes securing fear contagious, our shelters huddle
up.
Gone the estate thatched roof levels. Demerara windows
rattle. Age tilled fields choke at what those Ox yoked registers
have provisioned.
Rum and racket fire unrest all night; street chandeliers
deflower the hours. Until their day the meter men read leaves.
Watch as cut off this old lady's bones await departure
in galvanize rust wrap. Next door a dry good Boysie build one
double decker grilled roost with chariot parked and back yard
pooled for swim mate ceremony ̶ making patently no difference
to heads of deportment around the world.
So sky
ward off the past ̶ a kind of luxury ̶ he must be guard and
feeding something: baskets of coinage hanging like bats; hairy
spider lips ̶ with balcony to belly up window blinds to peep
whisper kneel behind; focus on quiet sucking.
Cane sweet
habits slow to burn, oui!
II
The sun probes each day's caries, bite clamps we grind on.
The years hang sheets of flesh wrung signs young life will
all its moisture spend here.
Faux book bound mirrors flatter fault
line tremblers, peon feet stick tending mud with cow. In wonder
land like Sisyphus our Kaie climbs gold rungs up to falls you can't
imagine.
Quick! blame the coca brokers, the pain
box drain no longer working; seed beads sewn on chest
vests east or west we wear.
And wait, nah! we still arriving
from old continents: jaguar optics, bit inland map reading. Need more
time to hack scrub out: particles faith lionising, limbo spine toll
gate raising.
As midnight cools the savannah ̶ listening above the crickets
for jangling spurs, good old Clint! ̶ grab iron fire ball full moon
tales ̶ Yep, just a few flight deck finishing touches left.
– W.W.
IN THE DESERT
To shorten the distance between oases
carefully cross each, and hold fast to none.
Take each one's pool and fruit as your breath
made lighter the briefer their taste,
but a dark stone the longer
you remain, more and more sand
collecting about your ankles
till the water and figs disappear,
leaving you in the shadow of a stump
to pin on it a picture of its green past.
(from "Nor Like An Addict Would" © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 