LAST LICKS BEFORE EXIT
Old folk will tell you the sound of death
approaching, as gunmen traffic up yours, is like
potow pow-pow on our island; while elsewhere boosh
you hear as death's pointy face, next up
& piqued, leaves a hot then warm bed chamber.
According to my source gun down you don't
that way; straight up I'm saying: when death moves in,
usually unalloyed, no Aloha you hear, no Jehovah
vending door smile; though just before the decresend –
souls standing (fates in waiting?) in white
light; your life so far exploding stars blowing
by in meteor swoosh or keynotes flashing –
the au revoiree falls, or staggers clutching, climbing. Now
by chance if near the exit ramp you en passant
are willing to lend assistance, be prepared
to listen for time up syllables red spread refusing,
like mama mia, mai; or moeder, muddafucker
still breathing? then make a cradle of one arm
while with free fingers 112 speed dial ("Stay
with me", till you find out mainframe's unplugged);
and thank your Krishna the Lord for cellphones,
there you go, there. you. go.
Meanwhile moments of silence
give even bell strokes
pause: crescent tumor flood bitches sons –
what train we didn't hear coming?
-W.W.
BUSINESS AS USUAL
In night's grave beyond my floor
one more motor throbs like Poe's
heart, a gaping door's
slammed shut
and another ghost moves on
to his latest rock of smoke.
I who know no rest must feel
such stabs of proof that other
hearts will refuse to stay put
as edged mirrors of my own
pursuit of nothing but breath
so that when some other knife
of night splits my heart enough
to make this dream of blood burst,
I will have been well rehearsed
in both leaving and never.
(from "Fabula Rasa" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 