for Kendel H. and Boots S.
At the bank or any public building where your business is
none of mine, a stranger comes through the doorway
says "Good Morning"; and everyone answers,
sprung from cell or pride, every one answers.
Gross inequities that moment make way,
charismatic bones click and play.
This is our island, your search connection.
And configure this: bodies wrapped up in road crash metal,
shoes poking out, a death in town by gun: and passers slow,
level breath short at blood spots news sheets flower shrines.
Dry mouths murmur – holler heart to bowel –
aie aie aie, shadows and goodness,
reverse reboot this earth flat speechlessness.
Island identity, oui, garcon! Test it when you travel
on city subways – there, see? can't quite hold that in
turn locking out the iText cargo cramped beside our selves.
Your eyes feel up for looking round
"the fuck you looking at?"
bon jour you waiting for.
Mannered residuals from plantation back lash? nah;
and not no virgin marie hip sway
bonding for miracle income either. Ok,
despite the bankruptcy of Ministries someone will call
respond decelerate to suck the poison of indifference
out before it spreads. Ask any band head granny.
Nou groMambo Paradisio? whoa! that's where
we are: love rising up at brake light notice: storm used
islands, once ankle and tongue tied, deserving of love;
site for new found land eternal eyes;
gone water colour twilight sighs.
-W.W.
PARADISE
These islands we people
as ghosts, no matter how
rooted our crops, cities
and walls against the sea
that lets us these altars
of our masochistic
leaf-passion for the wind
coming to rape our trees
or over the sea's edge
flinging our fishing boats
like shadows, like black leaves.
(from "Thief With Leaf" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 