A Million Manly Miles. Pt. 2

This is part 2. Told from a Carib-Jamericanadian perspective. In a richly blended language mix of; nonsense talk, sensational spelling, double entendre, poetry, and Jamaican Patois. Yes, wordplay is the order of the day around here. Yeah — man, a Jamaica yaad mi come fram, sorry, I meant to say; I’m Jamaican born and bred, okay? So.

After having been subjected to some proper talking-to from my good friend at the university, I decided to rewrite this piece that was previously published elsewhere. At the same time, I also took the opportunity to split the piece in two to properly consolidate the two prevailing schools of thought into separate pieces. Thanks again to Professor D. Here’s the result of that, in 2 parts. pt. 2

How are you doing, Mr. Brown? By the way, Weren’t you the one who was last seen on the way out of town? Trying to go and walk the many million manly miles up (or was it down?) Yes, that. As if you wanted to get all the way up north as a start. To go and form yet more forty thousand crops of sheet grass than those in the fields of crackpots — my sweetheart, no?

Yes. Packed to the brim and sold off. Thinking that you would then be able to sit down and relax and count your multitude of many blessings, one by one. Spreading it all over the furrowed grounds on the fertile field lands, you know.

Well, I’m just guessing this one. So, sound, what happened to the sound? Thanks, man, thank you for getting it back on.

Now, let’s continue to sit down and talk about this one.

Like, the good times you used to have, (are not.) Like, when you could have gone wherever you want Ted to, and went. Went out watering the garden, to the fullest length, and tending to the plants. Then turn your attention to herding the crop of sheep, hogs, and laying hens.

While waiting around for another batch of chicks to come to the hatch. So that your fabulous breeds of high-end chickens may survive and become something great, like this, and that. In their system, ma tick mechanical tik Tok chick. Yes, little miss, flip ma dipstick and check it out.

Thank you. I’ve always loved the way you do these things whenever you do. Making your name great and not remaining as dumb things sometimes tastes. I mean, dumplings. Yes, hiss and head shake, but make haste. You can always do it whilst dumping the dumplings on the plate. Onioned sardines will taste it up great.

But wait, perhaps not, others are working hard at putting it to a stop. To this one over here, and that, and to where you’re allowed to go and park the jack horse cart, whenever you go across town where you’d wanted to go and play domino, or come. They’re out busily putting a stop to that one every day, ma son.

Trying to stop you and yours from going outdoors every day, and from everything you thought that you’ve got locked down and secured too, okay? Although, you can’t ever seem to be able to see any such sneak attack. Pointed at me, from your door, way back at the knee.

Because you’re too blinded for trying to fit into that line dead, and in this one too. As I was just reminded, by, guess who? Yes. Forcing too hard to fit into the sack box of their played-out cards. The ones they are giving you to flip-flop and walk pass-little miss.

“Oh lord! You’d said, “I don’t deserve this.”

“I know, I know,” was my reply to you, as I had promised.

Well, let’s continue to talk along about this, like. When you’re old, and your many children are grown, bold, yes. In the meantime, though, we know of a place where you can go. A place where the people over there want our labor, do you hear?

“Yes.”

“Yes, man, as much of it as they are able to squeeze out of us before we go off on a binge through the doors. To go and meet the savior in the dome house once more. Yes, the same one with way too many rooms behind each closed-up door, hinged on my many mansions in the sky. Yes, Ms. Vye, that is why.

“I’m sure that you didn’t mean to interfere in our domestic affairs — sir,” you’d said. “But what this, in fact, does is. It prevents me from going over to see my lover, to try and lend her some more of my love under the covers.”

So, disclaimer is what I’ll name her. Because it’s a tool that I’ll use to inform you and everybody else that I may run into. Not to try and use any of these unacceptable views. No, please, don’t do it. Not any of those that didn’t come to me by way of the authentic authorities, such as these; you, and your tubes, schools, or the books of rules.

Since I’m not allowed to think freely, figure things out, or deduct a thesis from the narratives and the theories. Those that I’m fed with biscuits over the tea Leigh.

“Really?”

“Yes, you would be better off dead,” they’d said, “by laying no claim to whatever may be found on this page.”

Well, so you might have heard it said, somewhere down the watersheds of the KDs. But… tank gourd I’m the livered, and not delight. That was what I said on that very night

And now, the poet has spoken, again. Over to you to like, share, and comment. We sure would appreciate it if you would subscribe and follow us somewhere too. Thank you

By writingelk, All Rights Reserved.