In days whipped by if you didn't raise your hand to get
noticed Salut! you wound up halo weaning, a lynx
eyed old fart knee bent in prayer stall; the back rub
beamer for girls twirling @dresses.
Or a diamond
leg trapped in tennis shoes longevity; hard as ghetto
to burn ̶ Achtung.
Pop guns build Museotheques, disks cased in gold.
There's always an Error message, but white bone fear
of hip funk servers could freeze connections, skin scratch
infections that embed and repeat after you.
Youth limbs ̶ nothing better to do, belt free to waste good
pay days ̶ are best advised: here, conjure this ̶ scrub in,
your street hood's cramping; trunk grooves cut down 'ill
howl to heaven smell of bitter root ̶ one shot.
Flight capsules stand by ̶ crowd wave lock
in count down ̶ blue screens eclipse red moons. Cell sure
mobile glow beats no place to go. And site this: sun tan
schedules await the newest Royal embryo.
Maybe if
we slipped something in their food? a gatekeeper
posts.
This all on boarding ̶ rivers like Jordan ̶̶
who cares where bends shape falls whose faith fools
love. Oh snap! Arc de Rainbow. In step all good?
Nein.
– W.W.
THE INSOUCIANT CONSIDERATE PRINCE
Why should one, heeding the call of Things
To Be Done,
descend out of the realm of the Sun
where all knots and walls have already sprouted wings?
Things can wait, in the sweatshop below
in the den
of Duty, that servant with a bone
at his teeth as he sucks at his master's marrow.
Only after one has broken fast
with the Lord
of unhurried Light, should one reward
the demons of Do with ones attention at last.
It is their hunger feeds their demands
but they're just
clouds, under our Star, waiting to burst
when our rays trigger their rain to a million hands.
(from "Within The Wind" © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 