The police bring me in for questioning,
so I won’t be leaving this lockdown alive.
You see, it went this way. The old man came
into my grandfather’s shop, and I ignored him
when he sat on the barrels of mackerel,
the air heavy with cheese and salt.
“You’re too young to remember,
but I going tell you about a Jamaica
that never existed, yet I was there.
A place where man and man lived
side by side, yet hated each other;
where you could poke seeds
in the ground and in two-twos,
there would be trees with the sweetest fruit,
yet people were hungry; a place of fresh water
streams, springs bubbling out of the ever
giving earth, yet people were thirsty;
a time and a place of pastries and puddings
and every earthly delight, yet people
had no joy.” That’s when I told him to stop,
but he wouldn’t. "All who can’t hear must feel,”
is what my father always said.
“Why you torturing me with these fantasies?”
“Because you must know.”
That’s when I hit the bugger. I beat him.
I beat him and I beat him until he was cold,
so he wouldn’t tell anymore lies. And on my life,
Officer, every word I tell you is true.
I didn't want to weigh the blog down with any more information, so added a photostream of the Caribbean authors who will be appearing at this year's Miami Book Fair International on my old trusty website with the new and improved book store .Enjoy!