Climbers past, not feathered for memoirs, relieved to be done,
admit to weird post office dreams. They see savannah walkers
carrying ballots like cement blocks in lines that wrap around
Mt. Everest building . a freaking castle? on the mountain?
"Si, señor!" . and pole flags victory clapping.
They hear the grey skull scratch, Boy, up there not easy; chief stick
on teaming shaggy like sled dogs; while 'norita servers turn and toss
hot plate complaint like wish bone out gorge windows.
They brace as pledge cords snap ̶ Ay dios mio! Where the fuck those
people going? ̶ as tree limbs burst old empire banks put rusted cargo
ships on notice : the salmon are leaping! man woman child
steeping! steerage rules broke . writs sent out for repair.
Plunge accounts like rum flow down : pre-dawn summit
sightings ̶ the palms of angels catching water
drips from cloud torn linings.
*
Leagues past cigars and beards, our island shores : well, so it seems.
Need lease? consider Petit Jamoon Bay . our Walcott sea sides
noblesse drawn. You could by any home stretch of the imagination
chest swell . I-ditate . bottom up the seasons bare.
Full disclosure : we're capped in bottled thirst-slake drafts. Snow
storms sweep blind . sift grain worlds resettling : just not here.
There you frost breaker dare you, plow the tomato red to green;
our seed beds lay unburnished, sun rain night time mean.
But your pick
axe hooked that all the while, Mr. Marley. The best of us Google
now : iTag, mercy on us \ .
– W.W.
ALPINE GHOSTS
Entire mountains can be erased
by mere clouds
loitering
on their
way out of being
their focus of none,
and, from reaching our next clear path
of Heaven, discouraging us
with their slow grey threat
which our fading feet
nevertheless ignore to flesh out
the echoes
of the steps
of men
long dead, men long dead,
men long dead, long dead.
(from "Within The Wind" © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 