She lives in a villa near Montego Bay,
renting out guest rooms to artists blindsided.
Her 360 view features an orbalesque roll blind
that lets in the light, no matter the moon or mood.
Mine, at the time, was speckled and gray, quail
egg colour, no chirping, no cute chick inside.
She looked me over. I hope you don’t think.
I waited for her to finish. You hope I don’t think…?
She was showing me the suite. It’s all about mood
these days, isn’t it? I don’t feeeel like it, whaah! Inside
this bureau, fresh towels and robe. All of us have sided
with madmen and fools. We were born knowing how to bay;
we were foxy, not afraid to let the frisky out. Now you quail,
resenting, regretting, you’re the blindest of the blind.
A couple good souls flying in tonight will lift your mood,
she told me later by the pool, overlooking the Bay.
She stirred me a mai tai. You have friends who think
they can envy their way to success. True artists quail;
they fail and pay their dues. They haven’t bribed or sided
with imposters. Real celebrities, you’ll see, are not blind;
they don’t confuse the outer dodo with the one inside.
Pondering the notion of extinction in my room, I ate quail
pot pie from the villa’s private clutch. With the blind
open, I guess, is how Bob Marley ambled in, his mood
unhurried and smelling of ganja. Still too much inside
the head, yah? Jamaican mon, now he don’t think
or worry, he move—from here. Trustin’, he pull, insided
like da woman, but he still he, ya know? The Bay
light set off his dreads, in which small twiggy nests resided.
He approached with a slow sexy thrust of hips. Inside,
I was a mammoth gape—too much smoke of the Bay!
Nah, I’m staying here too. We know what each other think,
he gestured with long fingers, no need to make yourself blind
with proving, attacking, uploading my old shit. Mood,
make her your friend, mon, like dat happy curried quail!
All of Nature’s vibration, even the dodo, they’s singing inside.
Why? Because there’s no place we go when we go. Just think
about it. While they fill your sweet belly, those tiny quail
spirits are flying, accompanying your vibe, the only one blind
to their redemption song is you. You work up a sick mood,
call yourself blocked or lazy, pull up pretty pictures of the Bay.
You tourists are all the same, you travel here lopsided.
I’m not a tourist—okay, forget that, I am, but I’m not blind
to admitting I’m my own worst enemy. I was trained to quail
in the presence of the highly educated and unthinkingly sided
with the notion that success & wealth are—ouch! Hold on, bay
leaf. So you’re saying, sabre-tooths, dodos, all survived inside.
Do they need emancipating?—No, they need you to think…
oh, look Otis is coming…with a looser, closer to 432Hz mood.
I can’t pick up the dodo’s song yet, but I think somewhere inside
she chases quail happily, and I’m letting go of moods that blind,
having sided with the two best vibrations on the dock of the Bay.
© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image from true-wildlife.blogspot.ca