for Carl Hazlewood
Link all broke, Diallo hoped, toss at sea shilled
folk : not like falling traffickers off ship mast . tempest
pennant days and whales| nor rain then flood mud
slide tarpaulin wrap.
Wet shock . the cold Med swallow : one mother's grip
child pried apart, chin last up . bubbles at the mouth
spare floaters tent scrapped under bridges| clear
those café tables . rag tag les banlieues.
Who here knows best their cobbled streets like river
beds for make shift sleep . plait their loaf stretch dark
trace race through the tunnel.
[Mi kno' wha' you a talk bout . tire wiry Irie, passing
through . checking the evening Ethiopia update : Express
eastbound delay.]
So we are at an end here . hail sails need wind . grief
harbour. Our questions come this far of the world camp
break truck queues . search satellites for air.
Swim lively, metro tadpoles;
paint the great wall. Mind the mate gap| of you to come
not good| your nothing to begin with. On the rim rock
steady as you go.
– W.W.
MISS DICKINSON ADJUSTS MR KAFTA'S CLAIM
There's a hierarchy of the sky ̶
an accountancy of angels ̶
a Civil Service of the soul's clouds ̶
to which any wretch may apply
for assistance with his changes
on his climb out of one mold of clod.
It depends on from which level
of the spirit he will persist
in the filing of his petition
for one hearing ̶ by a bureau
of saints trained in systematic
attrition ̶ of his argument ̶ one
of a hundred billion, but his ̶
against his lot of the long wait
in line for his one moment in this
life ̶ one private consultation
with the Ombudsman of the fate
of complaints and appeals to the Light.
(from "Within The Wind" © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 