Night music in the Parking Lot

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Night music in the Parking Lot

Night music in the Parking Lot

A freestyle Calypso
steel band plays
in the In the corner
of the Shoppers drug mart
parking lot,
Illuminated by lot security spots,
and surrounded by
red Rogers
Bundles vans,
and by a lighted
chain link fence.
The music echoes
freely off the underbelly
of a freeway stage and stand,
as the steel band practices nightly
for a coming Caribana show,
with lined up arms
all swinging
in a row
on stainless steel tin cans.
Ringing tin music
bounces off smooth
grey concrete walls
and ceilings
and off the pillars
of the slightly lonely
freeway stand,
and the music takes us
to the brilliant whiteness
of the island sands.
And as I stand there
with my MacDonalds coffee
and the rest
of my bystander clan,
with their Blackberrys
clicking pictures,
and recording music
all in hand,
along with all the other
random stragglers,
and some other Shoppers
parking lot club fans,
I’m reminded of my
friend Jamaican Island Wayne ,
with the palm trees
that wave and flutter in his eyes,
as my good old friend Ben
had once described.

And that palm tease makes
the ladies all excited
from the tips of their
Philip Traecey hats
and down
to their polished knees.
Their Marc Jacobs skirts
sway in the gentle island breeze.
It makes
their Hermes hearts
all flutter,
and oh how he knows,
right down to
the tingling tips
of their luscious,
red underbellied,
Louboutin toes.
And I sit in my beige Lincoln
and think
how can paradise
be described ?
Is it name brand heaven
that makes us all alive ?
Can we survive
on the islands without
Dolce and Gabbana
and without Todds?
Are we all so invested,
that we just can’t
be divested,
of all those brands,
without losing who we are,
or for fear of being someone
that no designer knows.
Perhaps it’s just Ma Bell,
who is always listening,
that only really ever knows.
The calypso steel band
is still playing.
and it’s so real and so alive,
and it’s so not even Bose,
And I think of my
little two year old
nephew William,
who would now
be clapping,
and a dancing,
and taking off his clothes,
to the ringing island jive.

Where is naked, natural, beauty
with unemcumbered eyes,
free from all the Maybeline
(that’s now even worn by guys),
and all stripped down in its beauty,
and free from all designer clothes ?
So drink your one fifty one and coca cola,
and polish your Manolos too.
It’s just plain good for you
and stylish too,
or so we’re told,
as all of corporate America,
Europe and China knows.
So make sure
to wear your Calvins,
underneath your Gucci suit,
and hop into your Mercedes
for display
on a circling Yorkville toot,
as the music of the islands
still wafts across
the evening sky,
and the white sand meets
generic salty waters
across a brandless evening sky .

Worship at The Temple

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Worship at The Temple

Worship at The Temple

At the corner of Boissy D’ Anglais,
and Faubourg Saint Honere,
the faithful come to worship
at the Temple of Hermes .
Devoted in their worship
of leather silk and brand ,
the pilgrims journey to worship
to be cured and healed
from all manners of disease
and from the bourgeois
well heeled malaise .
They come with votive
offerings for their token
brightly coloured
squares of temple cloth.

And the priestesses
circulate upright
and solemn
with smiles
in simple black
clean lined temple garb
with black hair
and Egyptian eyes.

And the High priests too
have orange Potiron ties
elegantly placed
with poise
and clean lines .

At the altars ,
with relics finely made ,
the devoted hunch over
and pray silently,
lovingly to the god
of Couture
and Design .

And there are sacred places
at the tops of stairs
where only
the utmost devoted
can enter
and commune
with rooms of precious
religious artifacts
and jewels,
which can be theirs
with payment
of massive
votive offerings
and fines.

And the faithful circulate
up and down
the temple stairs,
sometimes
in familial groups ,
sometimes
in pairs,
but the truly
most devoted
go there all alone,
to clearly divine
what they must own,
and to determine
the will
that the Gods of fashion
that reside
at the temple of Hermes
have for themselves
and for their own .

From “Dreams for a Saturday Morning” by PWChaltas