So what?
play through meteor showers, the piano man said; they're
throwing moth balls on the stage? that's Ok
grip the surge and lift, up next a Mozart crew?
Another round search engine eyes will grope - whose place?
whose swollen softs? - however quick to do. Someone
will wipe the tables. Night ravens wanting altitudes fade blue.
Space debris everywhere these days, looks like; constituencies
of bare shelves and bottoms spinning 'cross the globe;
though the video about miners found alive
in coal bowels of the earth could planetize resurrections (Yo,
show you can endure the thorns, they'll kneel you from the groin.)
Hey, we still have choice: stay inside – your cabin
wired for cable & glazed skin pixels? – and watch
the swept up help!fight swim or swarm to freedom
squares climate ringed. Or fly the tribe like kite or alibi:
veils congealing loyalties, need salving through the prayers (Yo,
snake oil men sell apple cheeks from gardens in the red desert.)
You the orbit man…? "La Dolce Vita" …Arriight!
O sure, the world's a plasma melon sweeter than grits
of yesterday and who knows?
We could be airborne on bikes tomorrow unless Dios mio!
the bearded levelers bombast more old bald faiths &
bargain shoppers and body parts fly; but – excuse me –
my fingers come in here on the horn.
Tout a l'heure, baby!
-W.W.
INSOMNIAC PIANIST
The notes I play are points
of my being, a geometry
of moons floating within
but beyond the fat silence linking
planets rutted with sleep.
With threads of sound I stitch
my moons into a mask by which blank
meaninglessness translates
its urge to be meaning into this
needling of the night's wall,
until through its punctures
promises of a prodigal sun
stretch their firm arms of light
and this room expands as music draws
a universe anew.
(from "Scratches On Air" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 