ISLAND GOSSIP
We heard there is a Born Again Pastor converting single mothers
on the main island.
We heard white man gets the label still, white man.
We heard the workers haven’t gotten a raise in years.
We heard the whites and blacks live together so far but you never know.
We heard the man who owns the fancy restaurant on the main island
is into wife swapping.
We heard pirates used to hide here with their women. (They still do).
We heard a woman checked into the resort for two weeks, paid her bill
in advance and took an overdose of pills.
We heard the cigarette boats make drug runs to Venezuela.
We heard about a troubled hermit who people rarely see.
We heard it takes the rest of a lifetime to find the way out.
THE BURNING TREE
Where it will stand until it falls down decorated with flowers.
Where the families line up on the side of the road in their town clothes:
men in shirts, ties and jackets, women in straw hats and long dresses.
Where the mother tries to comfort her remaining son.
Where the grandson tries to comfort the grandmother.
Where no one should have to suffer so.
Where we saw the smoke trail on top of the mountain and we thought they
were burning garbage again or we thought it was the freighter that ran
aground again.
Where they’ve blocked the road and no more cars coming.
Where the swaggering police tell all the cars to turn around.
Where you take the long road up the steeps instead of the long curvy flat road
along the coast where they drive too fast.
Where further out the water becomes turquoise becomes green and the blue
turns into shadows that move up the hill and the patterns fly downwards
to touch the reef to touch the grieving families by the side of the road.
Where they make their graves above the ground like small huts
covered with wreaths of yellow, blue and pink carnations.
Where the pelicans circle closer to the place where the men were shot
in their car under the burning tree.
JIM'S COCONUT RAT
We, the local fisherman, ferry owners, pleasure boat owners and sea lovers
of the 3rd District ask the Government to preserve and maintain the mangroves. We
are being chased out of the grove.
The tourist is on the make:
He’s a rat a clown an imposter,
is in love with icons,
is in love with gossip,
is at times a burden,
is slippery,
is close enough to swallow your smell,
is never whole,
shops his way,
using up the world,
going everywhere,
getting away,
disappearing,
coming back for more.
White men in the sun,
dark men in the shade.
How they stand up in yachts.
How we stand up in trucks.
Watch us hose down the decks.
Watch us load their beer and chips.
Watch us take their garbage.
Watch us crawl up the mast.
Watch us scrub the boats.
Watch us bring the ice.
They come with the cruise ships
but they are not the spenders.
Sure, the government gets the tax
and the taxis get the rides.
White men in the sun,
dark men in the shade.
We heard there is a Born Again Pastor converting single mothers
on the main island.
We heard white man gets the label still, white man.
We heard the workers haven’t gotten a raise in years.
We heard the whites and blacks live together so far but you never know.
We heard the man who owns the fancy restaurant on the main island
is into wife swapping.
We heard pirates used to hide here with their women. (They still do).
We heard a woman checked into the resort for two weeks, paid her bill
in advance and took an overdose of pills.
We heard the cigarette boats make drug runs to Venezuela.
We heard about a troubled hermit who people rarely see.
We heard it takes the rest of a lifetime to find the way out.
THE BURNING TREE
Where it will stand until it falls down decorated with flowers.
Where the families line up on the side of the road in their town clothes:
men in shirts, ties and jackets, women in straw hats and long dresses.
Where the mother tries to comfort her remaining son.
Where the grandson tries to comfort the grandmother.
Where no one should have to suffer so.
Where we saw the smoke trail on top of the mountain and we thought they
were burning garbage again or we thought it was the freighter that ran
aground again.
Where they’ve blocked the road and no more cars coming.
Where the swaggering police tell all the cars to turn around.
Where you take the long road up the steeps instead of the long curvy flat road
along the coast where they drive too fast.
Where further out the water becomes turquoise becomes green and the blue
turns into shadows that move up the hill and the patterns fly downwards
to touch the reef to touch the grieving families by the side of the road.
Where they make their graves above the ground like small huts
covered with wreaths of yellow, blue and pink carnations.
Where the pelicans circle closer to the place where the men were shot
in their car under the burning tree.
JIM'S COCONUT RAT
We, the local fisherman, ferry owners, pleasure boat owners and sea lovers
of the 3rd District ask the Government to preserve and maintain the mangroves. We
are being chased out of the grove.
The tourist is on the make:
He’s a rat a clown an imposter,
is in love with icons,
is in love with gossip,
is at times a burden,
is slippery,
is close enough to swallow your smell,
is never whole,
shops his way,
using up the world,
going everywhere,
getting away,
disappearing,
coming back for more.
White men in the sun,
dark men in the shade.
How they stand up in yachts.
How we stand up in trucks.
Watch us hose down the decks.
Watch us load their beer and chips.
Watch us take their garbage.
Watch us crawl up the mast.
Watch us scrub the boats.
Watch us bring the ice.
They come with the cruise ships
but they are not the spenders.
Sure, the government gets the tax
and the taxis get the rides.
White men in the sun,
dark men in the shade.