Not the great compass winds, but the lesser,
the local winds, the mapmakers.
Odysseus once bagged them, but they escaped.
Anemoi, like the wind that de-horns goats,
or the Moorish, Melteme,
the ill-tempered one. Simoom, the poisoner
who fills throats with its tainted garments,
or Rashabbar the black wind
whose nocturnal wings blind all men.
Named, visible winds that chisel our faces,
as if we were cliffs at the edge of the world.
The Squamish, the Elephanta, the Williwaw,
time-swirling thieves. They steal the young,
the babes in their cribs and when we look for them,
a swish of a hem or a hurricane are the same.
The children return, a sculpted dervish
spiralling within them.
Tebbard, the fever wind, wanders through our bones,
a sultry doctor adding fuel to the heat
until a storm breaks, then as driftwood we are salvaged.
The Fever-bringer itself dies,
dry now as mottled kelp on carrion shores.
Winds that gnaw themselves into Chinooks and Mistral,
winds that shape and follow us
to the rim of the sky, where those celestial dragons,
North, East, South and West winds
dream fitfully of once being human.
In the chambers where thoughts are supposed to
roam free, Foreign voices echo, not belonging to me.
Words planted like flags on conquered territory,
Thoughts that flower in soil not my own.
I speak in tongues my ancestors never knew,
See through lenses ground by hands I never touched.
My dreams are shaped by stories I did not choose,
Yet they feel like home—this borrowed architecture of mind.
Each mirror shows a face divided by history,
Each thought arrives pre-weighted, pre-judged.
I sift through my beliefs like archeological remains,
Wondering which are artifacts of occupation.
The borders of my thinking are invisible chains,
Drawn by mapmakers who never asked permission.
Yet in the margins of these imposed paragraphs,
I find spaces where resistance takes root.
For even a colonized mind can question its borders,
Can recognize the foreign footprints across its landscape.
And in that recognition lies the seed of reclamation—
The first step toward a sovereignty of thought.????????????????
The river’s not really a river
‘Cause water can flow either way.
Right now it is tumbling downtown.
Tomorrow? I simply can’t say.
The jet skiers seem not to mind much;
The same for each tugboat or ferry.
I wonder if they’re all aware that
They’re riding a brisk estuary.
When mapmakers draw up their pictures,
Simplicity’s what they deliver.
It’s hard to say East Estuary,
So that’s why it’s called the East River.
A concerted body of thought
Primes the guarded pump
Each driving rendition, a version
The sculpture of well attuned days
This time around
Jaundice backseat drivers
Underwhelmed by gangrene javelins
Karmic mercury tipped for change
Directions of satan rearranged fallen
New features fitting old scriptures
A hidden mythology of sound, before word
Frontier searching mapmakers to mystic rebound
Or gather old glory in mermaids of fury
Womb pressed to unleash worthy solutions
Silky thrones of forgotten passion
A fine castle estate of make waves
hitting the breakers, sand shark lakes mutant
With escapades curtained in bone
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