I still have flashbacks, horrifying and spectral: of conference meetings, projectors and efficiency meetings...corporate metrics, acronymic value cards that read like a Masonic Temple's pledge.. ...honesty, commitment, sacrifice, the dutiful worship of mercury and saltpeter; also customer satisfaction.
           Those flashbacks frequent my mind alot--especially when I am ramming my co-workers into the trash compactor with the blades of the fork truck. They say " ooooh" and " ahhhhh" as if they are getting a massage. They dull my blades with their dull heads.
          I have to ram them with the blades of the fork-trucks, or they will scramble out. They still say things like, " make sure that has a tag,".....and " wear your safety goggles," making chills run down my spine. I haven't put all the workers from the " Do-Wee depot" in the compactor only corporate cadavers and not zombies.
          But I have to forewarn, the zombies are not a threat, it is a few cadavers and the "consumers" that pose a threat to me and what I have built. The zombies are producers, even only if it is moans and putrefaction, but they are good sports, and my only friends.
         Some co-workers, who I was friends with before, I have spared from the compactor--owing mostly to that the part of their brain that was corporate, either fell out on the floor, or was gnawed on by a fellow zombie rendering them good sports and not cadavers.
        I use the building material section to chain them to their previous aisles. Jose, was my best friend, he was shaped like a slug, with a huge lower lip, and slicked back greasy hair, he always cheered me up, how busy it was and how slow he remained. Him and I worked together in the ' outside-lawn-and-garden' section. Even his zombie self has kept his lisp.
          I chain him to the outside lawn and garden section, where he likes to water the flowers. He lunges at me sometimes, but the chain is thick, and Jose is still a cool zombie.
Angry Joe is out there too. He is chained to the 'reach' truck. He is always mumbling about overtime.....or " Im not staying late."
         I have disabled the riding engine, so he just stands on it and runs the fork blades all the way up then all the way down, beeping the horn the whole while. He is the only one I kept, that has some vestige of corporacy in his brain, for the reason that he watches the back gate. The consumers are constantly probing this outside metal fence gate, and Joe has eaten all of them. Don't get me wrong, Joe can be a good sport, when he is not drooling about 'overtime' or ' I havn't took a lunch yet.' He can be quite funny.
          He banters with Ryan from inside 'lawn-and-garden' all the time. Ryan is alot younger, alittle younger than me. He has a mullet(what I call a mullet and he say's a hockey cut) and verily is--before he become a zombie-- the laziest person ever, and now that he is a zombie, well let's just say, I don't have to chain him anywhere, I know where to find him.....at the back gate smoking a ciqerette backwards with his mullet on fire or in the break room. He had the most squeeky voice when he was a human, but now odd fully enough, he sounds like Tom Jones.
         " You ate my cosumer Ryan," drools Angry Joe, " No I didn't Joe, you ate your own consumer," Ryan rejoins in his acapella voice ( I like hearing Ryan's deep zombie voice).
There are others, in the various departments of the Do-Wee Store, but this journal is to relate the first most pressing concern, two cadavers have escaped the compactor.
             The store manager Joyce and her minion(the assistant manager Damien) have escaped. They were ******* humans, and remained so in corporate cadaver form. They hide from me, as I plow through the aisles with the inside forklift. I have used wire from the fencing aisle to reinforce my forklifts. Sometimes a cadaver co-worker will jump out with a price gun, drooling " where is your spootterrrr...."( a safety regulation in the store).....I run them over with great gladness, but then wishing I heeded their advice of safety glasses."Splat."
            I have my theories, on how everyone turned to zombies. It started with over-ocurring routine, which my a.d.d could have been impervious to. But I couldn't have been the only one in the store with a.d.d? But that seems the case. The first day when I showed up to ' outside-lawn-and-garden' it took me six hours before I noticed everyone was zombies. I didn't notice they were zombies until I noticed them in good spirits.
               But the first day of the zombies, was concurrent with the rise of the consumers--ever more dangerous, greedy, and audacious are the consumers. They consume everything in their path, they consume good conversation, good manners, and replace with their mark, which is this....your life with the current moment is to be sacrificed to get them what they need to continue resuming their lives. They do not enjoy shopping, but enjoy holding you in place, consuming you and your values into their value, which has no value at all, since their mind has consigned the present moment that has you and not them, to a number that always has too much value, and they will bring you and it down while you are subject to time and they are not.  
             They turned my friends into prisoners of arbitrary time; and like putting a rabbit in a dank dark basement, with plenty of food and treats and space, it will slowly get diarrhea and die.  Everyday I marked the sunrise, and I would always pay thanks to it, no matter if I was on break or not.  The nine hour day could not ruin me, but my friends being ruined, that started to ruin me.
                       And that is what I believed started all this, nature has no room for two kingdoms of Consumers. So the producers(zombies) were created from the routine of being divested of life, and from nothing they came to produce: producing gases, vile ****** smiles, human  cannibalism, hearty conversation, practical jokes, moaning questions to the infinite sky.... they were created human again, given value, and most of all, I have my friends back, and they are happy again. But, the corporate cadavers that escaped the compactor , put my creation in risk, they look to let in the consumers again, they are up to something...
             But presently with the corporate cadavers gone, and the consumers held at bay, I have my Depot of Eden, I can grow anything, make anything, and soon will be able to ferment everything, especially fuel.   Now monday morning conferences that threaten you to pick it up because there are alot of people out there that want your job( iterated by the frizzy headed gangly Joyce) are replaced with 'zombie dance parties'.  
            " Zombies, what is the first rule of zombie dance party," they reply to me, " dohmp talk bout damp party," then we make a music video.  I let loose a couple of cat's in the break room, and presto, an agile cat make's flesh eating zombies look like Micheal Jackson.  Even I get busy with them, I feel so comfortable with them; dancing to Juvenile "back that *** up,".the best dancer gets to eat the cat...sure beat's listening Joyce's depressing morning pep talks about quotas while I am watching a bird outside the front glass trying to eat a dragonfly, " Keith you paying attention."  I just want to say, " No I am not you frizzy headed gangly walking skeleton key(she is skinnier than the gang of keys jingling on her belt)."    I will find her and put a roofing nail in her temple and her plans.
                The sound of zombies walking in here is music to my ears, like gypsys walking barefoot on a strawberry patch.  I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I like it, and don't care who knows.

            I fortified the outside of the store with everything within the store. I grew a garden, with all the fertilizers, and acids and alkilines of outside garden. I also use the garden chemicals to sprinkle on the brains of my co-worker zombies to change their acidity(almost like a hyrdrangea shrub). The purpose to get them somewhat coherent to play poker and darts in the breakroom. I figured out how to make explosives, with the nitrogen fertilizer and pool cleaning acid, well actually HeyZues did, he always eats both, and one day he moaned really loud  " BLOOOONDEEE " ( his nickname for me from The Good The Bad And The Ugly) and  gestured his expanding stomach, he blew up and gave me my first wound, he destroyed my dart board.   I took his head and posted it on the back loading dock, I know there are consumers trying to infiltrate when he sounds off with " BLOOONDEEEE..."  resounding through the whole store (almost like when he was a human).   I created another dartboard, I can create anything here, sometimes I think, that feeling is what........
                But the point of this journal is the two who escaped the trash compactor, Joyce and Damien. They haunted me before and haunt me still. When I leave to venture outside for gasoline for the generators(the only thing I need, not for long hopefully) they run amok. I will see new ' sale signs' in zombie penmanship, and I can see that they have hidden co-workers to have cadaver meetings, where they talk about ' customer satisfaction.'  I can sometimes hear keys jangle, it has to be Joyce, for the sound is to the cadence of her John Wayne walk, like she has been on horseback her whole life.
            Outside is very dangerous. There are many consumers out there.
                 I was outisde in the parking lot, where consumers still wallow around when a consumer asked "which product is better." I had to drop a cinder block pallet on him with the forklift; they are more adacious then my zombie co-workers. Even after a pallet of concrete is forklifted on them, they wave fliers with sale advertisments from underneath.
            Well, this particular trip, I returned inside and was startled by the loudspeaker, it was Damien's voice, the same as before, paging the hardware department. I jumped on the fast slim forklift to hunt for him. There are phone terminals everywhere, and he could be in the upper level offices. I saw Joyce's shape through the window once.
          They are up to something.
Everytime I ventured outside, the store became altered. I even saw a consumer waiting in line with the cashier machine now on. I sent the consumer to Angry Joe, who was due for a lunch break.
          There is a gap in my wire somewhere, I know it.
            I was at the gas station, getting propane and gas, when a consumer was scowling " where is the gas attendant, is everyone stupid or what?" while he was trying to figure out how to pump gas. I disabled the safety pumps, they do not shut off, and do not coincide with numbers, you hold the handle it pumps out as much as you need.
              He was pacing around like a little kid denied recess and suffering from sounds of frolic and kickball--dragging his feet due to the fact he had to pump his own gas, I heard a scraping metallic clicking noise. My eyes were caught by a bright glare on his shoe tread, I gripped my nail gun..... then he dropped the hose and walked back to his car with gasoline gushing as his wake. I saw what it was on his tread, I had no time to flee....it was a push button grill ignitor with the orange tint of a " Do-Wee" label on it......" ****."
              The last thing I registered was the consumer saying " ahhh don't touch me," apparently talking to flames. I woke up in a ditch, the big fork truck and my gas station destroyed.
I limped back to the " Do-Wee" store, and utter horror greeted my singed and surprised eyebrows.
              " Grand Re-Opening, 50% off everything." I squeezed the trigger of the nail gun, the nail harmlessly echoed off the parking pavement at which it was aimed. "They set me up at the gas station. "
               They had to do better than that to separate me from my zombies.

             I entered through the store in a nun-plussed state. I woke out of my unbelieving stupor with the sound of Jose's voice. " Welcome to Doooooo-Weeee....can I eat your...."
            "Jose it's me, who chained you to the entrance?"
         " Dammian, Keeeeeth, they are waiiiting....here's a newsletter...." --he smacked me across the face with the newsletter.
        " I don't want that ****.....' as I clutched the newspaper the loudspeaker went off in Dammians annoyingly over-polite and late-night-voice.
       " Attention shoooppers. all prices are feeeefty percent off, ask our associate Keeeeeth for a 80% discount, he is the skinny deleeecious looking kid with spicy skin, and a boston red sox hat on."
Hundreds of consumers pivoted their heads to my direction. " Hey, that kid has a Boston Yankees hat on."
         " Run Keeeth," zombie-lisped Jose.
           Fifty million imbecilic questions assailed me at once......" can I return this sprinkler for a jacuzzi.....can I get 120% off.....can you come to my house and fix my television for free"-- it was unabashed audacity, survial of the most annoying and repetitious; and the corporate cadavers have let this consuming flood in on me and my poor zombies.
           I needed to find my steed, my inside forklift. It was not where I left it near the entrance.            
        Surely they have sabotaged it. " the riding mowers," the thought uplifted my fading resolve. I darted past wallowing consumers before they could get my scent. I heard a consumer, " you obviously don't know what Im talking about," talking to zombie George, who was munching roofing nails.
         The consumer grabbed me, and said "here he is, this is Keith, he is wearing a Phoenix red sox cap"--panic bit into my brain, this consumers grip was implaccable. The grip that holds the steering wheel tightly driving nowhere fast, with anything in that interstice of commuting, not worthy of manners and the least of which being a friendly wave to 'go ahead.'
           They formed a wall of uttering stupidity, escape was cut off. They scratched at me, hissed, tore at my flesh and screamed demonistically in my ears. I caved and and called the hoard m'am and sir, they choked me, and loosened their grip only so I could tell them " Im sorry, sorry for your inconvenience, take my life and personality as tribute, take my imagination rendered prostrate by these sceptic corporate words that this mouth emits, betraying my personal form, the human element to this lifeless purposeless machine....destroy me, for finding the infinity between letters of corporate law and none between nature's laws......"
        I was almost unconscious, giving a speech to imagined hooded phantoms......" destroy me, for valuing friendship and imagination, and seeing infinity, in the shadow of a letter, eternity in the numeral of a number, and for defying the order to see things as others do....."...." destroy me, for seeing that people are unhappy and trying to uplift people for the sake of seeing them smile....destroy me, destroy my smirk, and add a lifeless smile to my corpse."
              I heard a horn, the riding floor mopper/buffer, it was Ryan, he commandeered the machine with precision-like drunkenness. He knocked down the consumers like twenty pin bowling. " What's up ***** cat," he possibly said, and I climbed to my feet.
         I walked to the riding mowers, and turned the key on the floor model. I sped the main aisle, with caresses of consumers that would be deep clawings at a slower speed. I dodged stupid question, and swerved from unabashed frugality. I turned up the tool aisle, grabbed a battery nail gun.
              " It says batteries are included, but are they included?" I answered with a 12 gauge nail, and resumed my course to the upper offices, that for too long looked down on me and my friends. I climbed the stairs and entered. The office was abuzz in corporate banalities. " Hello, this is Damian how may I help you.....oh helloooooo keeeeeth, one minute.......sir hold one second thaaaanx."
                I aimed the nail gun muzzle at his ugly overly polite mug." I finally found you, I will get the store back in shape Damian...."
          He cut me off, " no yoou woonn't, they are pouring in, we will meet our quota for the year...."
        " Me and my friends

Mine are grapefruit halves
Bitter
Salted
Easing the transition into awake
Perfect juicy handfuls
But I know girls with cantalopes
Seems to me you'd need a map
To navigate those
And hands like
Melonballers just to make an impression
Raspberry, Blackberry, Cherry *******
A fruit salad of peaches
And mangoes and apples
It's a world made for peelers
And paring knives
I world where a sweet tooth
Can thrive

We plant our women in orchards
Cultivate them in careful
Organized rows
With expert farmers and the latest fertilizers
Leading them on
Into ripeness
Harvested at just the right time
So that no man ever need know hunger

A true story by  Thula Bopela**

I have no idea whether the white man I am writing about is still alive or not. He gave me an understanding of what actually happened to us Africans, and how sinister it was, when we were colonized. His name was Ronald Stanley Peters, Homicide Chief, Matabeleland, in what was at the time Rhodesia. He was the man in charge of the case they had against us, ******. I was one of a group of ANC/ZAPU guerillas that had infiltrated into the Wankie Game Reserve in 1967, and had been in action against elements of the Rhodesian African rifles (RAR), and the Rhodesian Light Infantry (RLI). We were now in the custody of the British South Africa Police (BSAP), the Rhodesian Police. I was the last to be captured in the group that was going to appear at the Salisbury (Harare) High Court on a charge of ******, 4 counts.
‘I have completed my investigation of this case, Mr. Bopela, and I will be sending the case to the Attorney-General’s Office, Mr. Bosman, who will the take up the prosecution of your case on a date to be decided,’ Ron Peters told me. ‘I will hang all of you, but I must tell you that you are good fighters but you cannot win.’
‘Tell me, Inspector,’ I shot back, ‘are you not contradicting yourself when you say we are good fighters but will not win? Good fighters always win.’
‘Mr. Bopela, even the best fighters on the ground, cannot win if information is sent to their enemy by high-ranking officials of their organizations, even before the fighters begin their operations. Even though we had information that you were on your way, we were not prepared for the fight that you put up,’ the Englishman said quietly. ‘We give due where it is to be given after having met you in battle. That is why I am saying you are good fighters, but will not win.’
Thirteen years later, in 1980, I went to Police Headquarters in Harare and asked where I could find Detective-Inspector Ronald Stanley Peters, retired maybe. President Robert Mugabe had become Prime Minster and had released all of us….common criminal and freedom-fighter. I was told by the white officer behind the counter that Inspector Peters had retired and now lived in Bulawayo. I asked to speak to him on the telephone. The officer dialed his number and explained why he was calling. I was given the phone, and spoke to the Superintendent, the rank he had retired on. We agreed to meet in two days time at his house at Matshe-amhlophe, a very up-market suburb in Bulawayo. I travelled to Bulawayo by train, and took a taxi from town to his home.
I had last seen him at the Salisbury High Court after we had been sentenced to death by Justice L Lewis in 1967. His hair had greyed but he was still the tall policeman I had last seen in 1967. He smiled quietly at me and introduced me to his family, two grown up chaps and a daughter. Lastly came his wife, Doreen, a regal-looking Englishwoman. ‘He is one of the chaps I bagged during my time in the Service. We sent him to the gallows but he is back and wants to see me, Doreen.’ He smiled again and ushered me into his study.
He offered me a drink, a scotch whisky I had not asked for, but enjoyed very much I must say. We spent some time on the small talk about the weather and the current news.
‘So,’ Ron began, ‘they did not hang you are after all, old chap! Congratulations, and may you live many more!’ We toasted and I sat across him in a comfortable sofa. ‘A man does not die before his time, Ron’ I replied rather gloomily, ‘never mind the power the judge has or what the executioner intends to do to one.’
‘I am happy you got a reprieve Thula,’, Ron said, ‘but what was it based on? I am just curious about what might have prompted His Excellency Clifford Du Pont, to grant you a pardon. You were a bunch of unrepentant terrorists.’
‘I do not know Superintendent,’ I replied truthfully. ‘Like I have said, a man does not die before his time.’ He poured me another drink and I became less tense.
‘So, Mr. Bopela, what brings such a lucky fellow all the way from happy Harare to a dull place like our Bulawayo down here?’
‘Superintendent, you said to me after you had finished your investigations that you were going to hang all of us. You were wrong; we did not all hang. You said also that though we were good fighters we would not win. You were wrong again Superintendent; we have won! We are in power now. I told you that good fighters do win.’
The Superintendent put his drink on the side table and stood up. He walked slowly to the window that overlooked his well-manicured garden and stood there facing me.
‘So you think you have won Thula? What have you won, tell me. I need to know.’
‘We have won everything Superintendent, in case you have not noticed. Every thing! We will have a black president, prime minister, black cabinet, black members of Parliament, judges, Chiefs of Police and the Army. Every thing Superintendent. I came all the way to come and ask you to apologize to me for telling me that good fighters do not win. You were wrong Superintendent, were you not?’
He went back to his seat and picked up his glass, and emptied it. He poured himself another shot and put it on the side table and was quiet for a while.
‘So, you think you have won everything Mr. Bopela, huh? I am sorry to spoil your happiness sir, but you have not won anything. You have political power, yes, but that is all. We control the economy of this country, on whose stability depends everybody’s livelihood, including the lives of those who boast that they have political power, you and your victorious friends. Maybe I should tell you something about us white people Mr. Bopela. I think you deserve it too, seeing how you kept this nonsense warm in your head for thirteen hard years in prison. ‘When I get out I am going to find Ron Peters and tell him to apologize for saying we wouldn’t win,’ you promised yourself. Now listen to me carefully my friend, I am going to help you understand us white people a bit better, and the kind of problem you and your friends have to deal with.’
‘When we planted our flag in the place where we built the city of Salisbury, in 1877, we planned for this time. We planned for the time when the African would rise up against us, and perhaps defeat us by sheer numbers and insurrection. When that time came, we decided, the African should not be in a position to rule his newly-found country without taking his cue from us. We should continue to rule, even after political power has been snatched from us, Mr. Bopela.’
‘How did you plan to do that my dear Superintendent,’ I mocked.
‘Very simple, Mr. Bopela, very simple,’ Peters told me.
‘We started by changing the country we took from you to a country that you will find, many centuries later, when you gain political power. It would be totally unlike the country your ancestors lived in; it would be a new country. Let us start with agriculture. We introduced methods of farming that were not known I Africa, where people dug a hole in the ground, covered it up with soil and went to sleep under a tree in the shade. We made agriculture a science. To farm our way, an African needed to understand soil types, the fertilizers that type of soil required, and which crops to plant on what type of soil. We kept this knowledge from the African, how to farm scientifically and on a scale big enough to contribute strongly to the national economy. We did this so that when the African demands and gets his land back, he should not be able to farm it like we do. He would then be obliged to beg us to teach him how. Is that not power, Mr. Bopela?’
‘We industrialized the country, factories, mines, together with agricultural output, became the mainstay of the new economy, but controlled and understood only by us. We kept the knowledge of all this from you people, the skills required to run such a country successfully. It is not because Africans are stupid because they do not know what to do with an industrialized country. We just excluded the African from this knowledge and kept him in the dark. This exercise can be compared to that of a man whose house was taken away from him by a stronger person. The stronger person would then change all the locks so that when the real owner returned, he would not know how to enter his own house.’
We then introduced a financial system – money (currency), banks, the stock market and linked it with other stock markets in the world. We are aware that your country may have valuable minerals, which you may be able to extract….but where would you sell them? We would push their value to next-to-nothing in our stock markets. You may have diamonds or oil in your country Mr. Bopela, but we are in possession of the formulas how they may be refined and made into a product ready for sale on the stock markets, which we control. You cannot eat diamonds and drink oil even if you have these valuable commodities. You have to bring them to our stock markets.’
‘We control technology and communications. You fellows cannot even fly an aeroplane, let alone make one. This is the knowledge we kept from you, deliberately. Now that you have won, as you claim Mr. Bopela, how do you plan to run all these things you were prevented from learning? You will be His Excellency this, and the Honorable this and wear gold chains on your necks as mayors, but you will have no power. Parliament after all is just a talking house; it does not run the economy; we do. We do not need to be in parliament to rule your Zimbabwe. We have the power of knowledge and vital skills, needed to run the economy and create jobs. Without us, your Zimbabwe will collapse. You see now what I mean when I say you have won nothing? I know what I am talking about. We could even sabotage your economy and you would not know what had happened.’
We were both silent for some time, I trying not to show how devastating this information was to me; Ron Peters maybe gloating. It was so true, yet so painful. In South Africa they had not only kept this information from us, they had also destroyed our education, so that when we won, we would still not have the skills we needed because we had been forbidden to become scientists and engineers. I did not feel any anger towards the man sitting opposite me, sipping a whisky. He was right.
‘Even the Africans who had the skills we tried to prevent you from having would be too few to have an impact on our plan. The few who would perhaps have acquired the vital skills would earn very high salaries, and become a black elite grouping, a class apart from fellow suffering Africans,’ Ron Peters persisted. ‘If you understand this Thula, you will probably succeed in making your fellow blacks understand the difference between ‘being in office’ and ‘being in power’. Your leaders will be in office, but not in power. This means that your parliamentary majority will not enable you to run the country….without us, that is.’
I asked Ron to call a taxi for me; I needed to leave. The taxi arrived, not quickly enough for me, who was aching to depart with my sorrow. Ron then delivered the coup de grace:
‘What we are waiting to watch happening, after your attainment of political power, is to see you fighting over it. Africans fight over power, which is why you have seen so many coups d’etat and civil wars in post-independent Africa. We whites consolidate power, which means we share it, to stay strong. We may have different political ideologies and parties, but we do not **** each other over political differences, not since ****** was defeated in 1945. Joshua Nkomo and Robert Mugabe will not stay friends for long. In your free South Africa, you will do the same. There will be so many African political parties opposing the ANC, parties that are too afraid to come into existence during apartheid, that we whites will not need to join in the fray. Inside whichever ruling party will come power, be it ZANU or the ANC, there will be power struggles even inside the parties themselves. You see Mr. Bopela, after the struggle against the white man, a new struggle will arise among yourselves, the struggle for power. Those who hold power in Africa come within grabbing distance of wealth. That is what the new struggle will be about….the struggle for power. Go well Mr. Bopela; I trust our meeting was a fruitful one, as they say in politics.’
I shook hands with the Superintendent and boarded my taxi. I spent that night in Bulawayo at the YMCA, 9th Avenue. I slept deeply; I was mentally exhausted and spiritually devastated. I only had one consolation, a hope, however remote. I hoped that when the ANC came into power in South Africa, we would not do the things Ron Peters had said we would do. We would learn from the experiences of other African countries, maybe Ghana and Nigeria, and avoid coups d’etat and civil wars.
In 2007 at Polokwane, we had full-blown power struggle between those who supported Thabo Mbeki and Zuma’s supporters. Mbeki lost the fight and his admirers broke away to form Cope. The politics of individuals had started in the ANC. The ANC will be going to Maungaung in December to choose new leaders. Again, it is not about which government policy will be best for South Africa; foreign policy, economic, educational, or social policy. It is about Jacob Zuma, Kgalema Motlhante; it is about Fikile Mbalula or Gwede Mantashe. Secret meetings are reported to be happening, to plot the downfall of this politician and the rise of the other one.
Why is it not about which leaders will best implement the Freedom Charter, the pivotal document? Is the contest over who will implement the Charter better? If it was about that, the struggle then would be over who can sort out the poverty, landlessness, unemployment, crime and education for the impoverished black masses. How then do we choose who the best leader would be if we do not even know who will implement which policies, and which policies are better than others? We go to Mangaung to wage a power struggle, period. President Zuma himself has admitted that ‘in the broad church the ANC is,’ there are those who now seek only power, wealth and success as individuals, not the nation. In Zimbabwe the fight between President Robert Mugabe and Morgan Tsvangirai has paralysed the country. The people of Zimbabwe, a highly-educated nation, are starving and work as garden and kitchen help in South Africa.
What the white man told me in Bulawayo in 1980 is happening right in front of my eyes. We have political power and are fighting over it, instead of consolidating it. We have an economy that is owned and controlled by them, and we are fighting over the crumbs falling from the white man’s ‘dining table’. The power struggle that raged among ANC leaders in the Western Cape cost the ANC that province, and the opposition is winning other municipalities where the ANC is squabbling instead of delivering. Is it too much to understand that the more we fight among ourselves the weaker we become, and the stronger the opposition becomes?
Thula Bopela writes in his personal capacity, and the story he has told is true; he experienced alone and thus is ultimately responsible for it.

Shot a rabbit two days ago, it was a good shot taken at distance from height. The rabbit died instantly, it had been digging holes in my lawns, it had to go.

I watched it die and I had cause to ponder the death from a religious angle, where believers say we go to another place when we die?

I know where this rabbit went, he went into my vegetable garden, buried deep with all the other varmints and critters that have crossed my path.

Over the years we, (my wife and I), have turned that patch of barren volcanic ash into a wondrous source of lettuce, potatoes, onions, rhubarb, tomatoes and leek..by adding the carbonaceous remnants of not only these creatures but of composted vegetation, seaweed and selected fertilizers. We also grow the most beautiful roses and deliahs and crysanthemums you will ever come across.

And do you know...in the dark of night other little rabbits and bugs and things come out and nibble those very creations...unaware that they are completing the circle of being.

This is the true spirit of creation, as I see it, where deep in the garden, the motes of nutrition transmogrify beneficially from one entity to another, eventually, for the common good of all.

This is the basis of my belief. Feet on the ground...
What is....most definately is!

M.
Taranaki NZ

Biology:
It is in your garden, the way you fertilized your soil
through the help of those little squishy Earth worms
and other organic fertilizers
like leftover decomposing food
Either it was for planting ornamental plants
to decorate your dull backyard or
it was for planting your favorite vegetables
to make your family healthy and save money!

Where do I land, in the cogs and gears?
I observe all around me, a machine,
turning, churning, grind, pop.
The tenacity of the hive-mind.

My presence could go forgotten
if it weren't for my pathetic attempts,
to connect,
to plug-in,
to that vast unconsciousness.

We are all caught in this "world",
This world of dog doesn't get to ******* eat at all.
They say, "Welcome to the real world."
This is the real world as surely as our fertilizers make the ground fertile.
And as surely as our "freedom fighters" fight for freedom.
No, this is not the real world,
and it never should be.

This is our false reality.

We are not who we are meant to be.

The Mother beckons us home.

These cogs and these gears,
they are not for me,
and they are not for you.

I do not land in these cogs,
I would not land in these cogs,
I could not land in these cogs,
I should not land in these cogs,
I will not let you land in these cogs my fellow being of glorious stewardship, charged with the protection of this great planet and its balance for all who were and ever will be.

I'd like to mention that my city Karnal was once the bastion of the armed forces.
Close to my house in NDRI campus until half-a-decade ago stood remnants of the old British Barracks - an irksome reminder of the colonial period.
But we went inside the rickety ruins of an olden period to play hide and seek and sometimes just for fun as an adventure.
I had seen them - the erstwhile barracks in that dilapidated state only, carrying the Union Jack painted at some places, and I had seen the ruins crash to ground - a reinstated taste of Indian freedom.
The Colonial army camped here until the occupying British chose to shift the army camp to Ambala due to high occurrence of mosquitoes in the city of Karnal and found this place fit only for a great cattle yard.
Karnal has seen negligence & side-lining ever-since along the course of history.
The Indian Oil Corporation's petroleum refinery was decided to be built in the neighbouring Panipat city & so was the National Fertilizers Limited's manufacturing plant built there and not in Karnal.
In Karnal they built research institutes, filled with greenery these make the city a comfortable place to relax at ease.
But ****** shameless people don't realize the value of plants & trees and keep removing them off the face of Karnal & even where I live, in the NDRI campus - acronym for the National Dairy Research Institute campus.
****** blood sucker stupid human beings are sometimes more irritating than the malarial mosquitoes.
They cut trees assuming trees shelter mosquitoes!
True they might be but I keep wondering what about the potholes dug by them into the coal-tar & gravel roads to facilitate the installing of religious & marriage tents.
But nothing can be done to change the people whose mindset has been falsely ligated with the thought of *we are the best & we won't change.

let’s love the lawn
sweetheart
let’s trim the lawn;
let’s get it cut
and neat and fine;
let’s do the groovy lawn dance
baby
so the neighbors will be
green as nourished grass


let’s feed the lawn
sweetheart
all chemicals and fertilizers;
let’s read the warnings first
baby:
keep away from eyes
wear a face mask
and spread generously
on lawn


let’s keep the lawn beautiful
and pleasant
like the ancient fields of Albion,
sweetheart;
it’s time for the ****-killer sprays
and conscientious as we are
we use only enviro-friendly
so let’s read the instructions
baby:
Keep spray away from drains
and eyes and skin
and do not spray before rain


Ah, come on
ladies and gentlemen
of our distinguished
blue ribbon suburbs;
out all with your chemicals
and all our pesticides
to **** the grubs and such pests



come all, Old Ken
and newly-weds Lily and Peter
and new-arrivals Tan and Goh
we’ll show you how;
come sweethearts
come let’s dance in the fields of cherished suburbs
and let the earth yield a great big burb


this is the way
we spray chemicals
this is the way we **** our weeds;
this is the way we fertilize our lawns
this is the way we spray pesticides
early morning
every Spring and Summer
this is the way we do it
early morning
every Spring and Summer

so let’s love the lawn
sweetheart
let’s trim the lawn;
let’s get it cut
and neat and fine;
let’s do the groovy lawn dance
baby
so the neighbors will be
green as nourished grass

There was this garden where I looked for breaths every morning.These cool and pine slapped winds gave me reason to live as I fought hard to ward frustrations of life.So many of them clouded me that they could have outnumbered the grass blades that stood proudly in the trimmed lawn. There was this lone Oak that stood tall and alone just like me in this mountain ***** retreat.A peculiarity of this land was that it was not amenable to growth of any flowers. I had none of them whatsoever in any 12 months year after year. The flower rows had turned **** pots for two terriers and three cats that romped the greens almost whole day.Despite their efforts at fertilizing nothing happened.It was accidental that I discovered a puny rose bush,almost stunted, at the end of one row when I was asking my housekeeper to clear the row of dirt. My delight knew no bounds as I saw the little survivor. It may have been little but it was old and had strong sharp thorns and drew blood from me as I tried caressing it. Its first regular watering was that very drop of blood.Determined to let it live and grow I became a care giver instantly.



Fertilizers,gardening manuals later I drew up a watering plan that kept me busy day after day.To my delightful amazement the plant took to shoots and little greens. Soon it had its first bud then another and then another.The first flower that beamed at me one morning was a green rose. It was smiling and thanking me for letting it grow and live.I caressed its silken petals like a Romeo who caressed the skin of his Juliet. The flower bloomed and became so brightly colored and big that passersby stopped to glare at it in awe.Its siblings too started showing up. Soon the bush became a show case of that garden and my life. One cold night I drank a bit too much and slept like a horse only to wake to a white sheet of snow. Green had gone and the white ruled. I panicked to the rose bush and almost screamed. The snow had made a grave over it. Lacking oxygen and sunlight its leaves and petals were ready to turn brown. There was nothing I could do to save it. In two days time it had reverted to the stunt that it was. Yet I smiled ! Why?



The flowering had left me a lesson after its demise.



Careful tending and hard work can lead to success even when everything seems impossible.Carelessness can lead to losses which can be total.



and then...



The life events are seasonal and cyclical...time and circumstances combine to make for fruition.



Medicine or human care can only prolong but not obviate natural decay.



There are always spoilsports for your 'victory party'.



Success cannot last forever.



You need to sow it with blood to make it work.



These were precious. All flower on a robust bush in my maturity that will never wilt inspite of all storms or snows.

Thousand years ago, the world somewhere began
an escape, a thousand years later still trying to get to the end, but my body becomes a decorative piece, becomes of a number one digital romano ... that turns into flames cinch and dressing this base disencounter ; that is my physical, on an all, regardless of who will manage and the rule ... "

... I find it hard to breathe ... i do not know if i can continue what i have proposed ....
there is so much to say. i never wanted to write about it. and now i am here, changing the paper by words.
   better...... so nobody will remember anything, thanks to the evanescence. I have nothing to leave, no one for whom to stay here. i just hope to leave my soul in peace ...
   ... tonight i die.

**** dreamer who i am! i never got anywhere by myself. i never got to be what it was if it had not been for someone else.
   my days, my whole life governed by feelings ... they left me?
  
Inserts 1 - full moon in three shooting lights threshold pierced window shades sea view. there were three golden stingrays. they went to his room versailles, with some electricity that flowed from their bodies corps plans were roots electro-magnetic. upon entering threshold, their bodies pressed proportion to the input capability, but yes, each tidily came one after other. snipf believed to be asleep yet, but ***** it finding that was very real., many thought to pray, the saint who heard his confession had derived dimensional elsewhere.

Each stood before him. they looked with your eyes ldeep blue, relighted one in your iris reddish tint. your long antennas your heads caressed her room like recognizing them. snifp raised his arms as if embracing them, but put them over his head like imitating them, so began to turn, as if he were at the bottom of the ocean. this way, began to rowing with his arms in the room. the four members looked at each other, until snifp stood in between them, restarting your memories and confession to your new species of visitors. - no doubt their gods were they who visited because they were the ones that helped him in difficult and conflicting tasks. they must be highlighted; no le imposed a religiousness, only you your matches proposed delayed stages,

Four together, sit finally, focus on one thought as he took him to snipf arm for lease gate reality. aso these blankets emit a high-pitched noise that made snipf his new travelers to dream where would be the master sea and land beside them.

Romanticism is only rain emotions between winter skies sweetened; it is the cessation of rain from storms deaf. those deaf people who never believed in sentiment. Perhaps they have died without discovering it, and so poor and eager to continue living. instead i say goodbye to my land, my things, my memories. i'm so overjoyed without missing anything because what i miss is dead.

Insert 2 - feel distant sounds thunders and lightnings - some cats stumbled after feeling loud noise.

   I was born in 1832, dressed in beautiful costumes me, but i was on saturday mornings bathe with my blankets friends, all that leave very soon because every day stuttered more, and i found it hard to beat in my talk. They moved me with all my belongings to higher school, even only place to hear the bells of the cathedral, filled me with hearing loss and mortuary pain inside me was a place that then fled, over time i graduated from journalist, without anyone in my family believed in me. they never could understand my lack of realism. some call me naive, not without reason, i must admit.

   It's curious. whatever it is that one wants in life, always have obstacles from the people closest. from them comes the pain of misunderstanding and apathy. of them come from the larger wounds heals any ointment. Until i met a fisherman near a marina rivera long in a bar, then he told me his adventures and i became the eager boy children's stories. that night made me drink and drink until you drop at the side of a fishing terminal on the deck of a great ship.

Insert 3 - sleep - my in between growth stingrays, they were flying at night over my house, and sometimes brought me messages about the new season climate. interrupted my homework prepared, and most important, including, the most important; me included among the best, to sail with them. some among their ranks, me and took me taught to fly, although i always kept my body cold, completely oblivious to provide me own will enough heat. they gave me when stuttered or epileptic seizures, they did me your riding world where no disturbance physics i was afraid. But my blankets, me covering, me had in his pilgrimages slitting sea, sea to own and only, just for me. noises in them moderated my ears oversensitive, and for the first time vi from the sea depth rain fell as planting the ocean, as vast brightening the room he shared alongside them.

Insert end -

my life was empty without a firm helm, but ... god!
   she was several years younger than me. a beautiful creature in sight and confined to good feelings. i met a rainy night. she was with hat, with umbrella. we were heading to the same place where there was no one, because the activity had been suspended. after waiting and exchanging timid and nervous words we decided that we would be together forever.

   I do not mean it was love at first sight. rather, it was like finding my soul mate. and although we knew that the road would be hard and painful, we launched into a destination built by us and our struggles.

it's beautiful outside, with the moon through the trees can they see me sitting here or your mind round inside me?
   All of me are gone, even the children we never had. they left me in the cold. she will not sit in front of my fire more, because now she is snow.
    Is dark outside, trees writhe can they wait or live without me?
   but his fingerprints are still marked, marked in the snow left in me. everything is so white that hides the traces of tears that you never saw. everything is a blanket of snow falling on the memories you used to have. But even heart aches as before, i can not help feeling that someday come back from the dead to take your hand.
  
it's warm outside; the trees are gone. my soul took another turn. he never appeared someone like her. if your fingerprints are still, and i can see them in the snow! Everything is so white that covers the trails that she was not allowed to continue. everything is nothing, that clouds the movements that made me.
   But my heart is still suffering as he did. you followed the path that never again will bring.

I am confined to my bed in a dark room. i have a window overlooking the sea from the east, and another that puts me in front of the forest. i left on my bed a wooden box with yellowed leaves are the letters we sent her and i for so many years. yet i keep them all ... no, it's not true, many were lost in the fire flash - she will walk through the park until a curtain falls separating both. - pauses then your thinking and strongly bites pencil in her mouth was.

But no matter, i have the words engraved in my memory. and that will continue.The branches of the tree, which adjoins east window of small ones are ways to my walking, like war heroes. further, on stretchers, bring my faithful subjects in about trust management mi. but to raise my head like a big diving, they come see some maimed, come without it, come without his presence, bring only pieces of his body.
    
Our whole life, a very short time we were together, and not that we would not be, but there was always something that separated us. first the family, then the distance. We were separated and had to go in your search. at that time i was studying and trips were long, tedious and very damaging to my career, by the way, my family did not look favorably upon our union, rather than being recognized by men had communed in the sky ...
  
How i detest this ancient time! it is not day nor night, and i am not a man more educated to think more than this ... i hate to see the sun when i pray to the west, but someday she will take my dreams where the stars shine, where all they talk with their hands, without anguish nor grief, where all secretly want to go where the beauty sing constantly.

[ellipsis n 1]  

Adulthood - in the municipal choir - snifp came with his briefcase wondering if had kept all their material header, then trying to put his hand to pocket inner his coat, pulls out a key, this will be falling from his hands, and could realize there was a leaf on the floor, announcing a performance coral group in the premises of the municipality.
[end ellipsis 1]

[ellipsis 2]

Children age - in the conservatory - this brings another memory your memory with air fire, a dense air, movement of people, unable to help each other. it was toward the end of his second childhood, with his mother ran near a school where she thought enroll for classes theater.  mourn strongly but his mother, asking what was wrong? she said nothing for you not to worry. small but was snifp intuited by the uncertainty of their economic resources. he hugs her and says he has talent, that will come after all. snifp for a moment lets his mother and a photo seen in someone like his father, leaving the building and walks cobblestones wetted by the ***** of a vil exploited horse, and suddenly caresses their hands caress end the cabinet of the lord of the book store. and see i was like his father, but this time had the pipe on the left hand and lenses in the right hand. then, scare away horse and scared snifp trying to crossing the street leading the news to his mother. Her, i had signed up for next season.

[end ellipsis 2]  

After his assistant will take a reactant concoction snipf felt memories of those rejuvenated, making faces on the wall of his room. some of them were very funny and some not. but suddenly crossing the fingers tightening strongly and fix your clothes. buckle his belt. to sing is arranged, to shout and satiated to see if it really true the spirit that motivated him aires to be acquired new life. gets, fell knee, runs open window. try to touch everything with his hands, then kick chair to sit down and write. for each paragraph writing was setting and take off  lenses. for every paragraph, she took a sip of boiling concoction that was with him at that time

   Many of these letters were written thought in poetry. some might object letters "form", but the content, our feelings ... they can not be judged by anyone. I can not symbolize things. for me a bottle is a bottle. i need to reach a level of abstraction, because i recognize that everything beautiful i've seen i remember; because i know that to forget, everything will fly in the wind. so i can not symbolize anything. on the other hand, i know that everything that meant something to me, i could never do completely reach your heart. i hope to be wrong.
- get your consultant with tray in his hands unite.
snipf lord, your medicine. remember that leave this excerpt stingray than recommended by your doctor. You and your advisor and the look before opening the door thinking it would the last time i'd see him, then snipf recommences his speech ._
... i consider myself a failure fledged. some of those past failures are transmuted into fertilizers for ephemeral successes, lost in the sound of the wind beneath me accommodating my feet to tie them to my chair inquisitor.  TO  BE CONTINUED

my lover, she baptized herself in blood;
my lover, she reeks, reeks of
everything the postman hasn't told her.

my lover, she baptized herself in blood;
my lover, she talks, talks of
life back in between waters and death.

my love, my love, my love,

wont let me sing a sonnet to her
before her body reeks of
fertilizers and plants i'll leave in

her jigsaw puzzle skull.
my lover, she reeks, reeks of
nostalgia i cant withstand.

my love, my love, my love.
my lover, she reeks, reeks of
her clothes at home i called death.

oh,
my Lover, she baptized herself in blood.

- eozyoh. 21.01.2018

Looking meticulously on a river scene of beautiful Wednesday afternoons with all of life’s luxury
Out the window is a tree bent and gnarled with visible age twice my own
The perfect metaphor of life merely eking by, postured against infinity
As another, warped by the waves and turned to termed drift wood, also catches my eye for its existential merit
As it’s all been said before perspective is our only peculiarity
At the point, or lack there of, between all and nothing
Our minds spontaneous self-revelation is miracle enough for any, god fearing be ******  
As over grown and lush as the under-leaves have become it seems like a waste to cut them out now so we might as well pump them full of fertilizers and hope for the second coming
Of knowledge and growth that began in the stone age bottle necking and splurged on drugs and money during the industrial revolution.
While trying to remember the ugliest parts that were and always will be me
Lets get free, really really free

burning rain forests
wild animals with shrinking space to live
growing air pollution
smog in major cities
more than 3,5 million deaths
     due to respiratory diseases
global warming
new insects and other beasties
    in the formerly cooler regions
extreme hurricanes  rainstorms  heatwaves
excessive use of fertilizers by agro-industries
bees are dying
blossoms are left unpollinated
biodiversity is in a flat spin
deserts keep growing globally
fossile fuels are still polluting the air
curious dolphins die in the water of the Thames

after so far hundreds of thousands died of Covid-19
it is high time to see the larger picture
to comprehend interactive phenomena

the pandemic brought earth a little recovery time
the waters have cleared
you can actually see fish in the canals of Venice
satellite pictures show clear air over metropolises

suggesting: the new normality after the pandemic
must be significantly different from the old one

do we really need hundreds of thousands to die?
does it need a virus for us to understand

that we need a different relationship to nature?!!

I am as beautiful as a flower,

As strong as the waves in the ocean

Yet my demons, they make me as delicate as a petal

And my roots they become feeble at the dusk of day when I lay in my bed of tears thinking about you;

I talk to God about you, I ask him to protect you and in return he asked me why do I settle

Because God, he kissed my roots and suddenly my flower bloomed

I tried to explain that it was you who made my demons temporarily disappear and it was you who made me feel like the world wasn’t so doomed

I talk to God about you, I ask him to ensure your happiness and in return he asked me what’s so special about you

I tried to explain that it was you who cared for my garden and woke up to ensure that my flowers were watered. I tried to show him that it was you aided the new growth and helped to pull out the weeds

I talk to God about you, I ask him when will I find someone like you again and in return he says this is just the start

He tells me of the many “yous” that will come around and plant new seeds, and fight different demons and more “yous” that will fill my garden with fertilizers only to rip it all apart

I talk to God about you, and I tell him none of the “yous” will be you and in return he asked me how deep was my roots that were ripped out and how delicate was my petals that fell off

I tried to explain the depth and delicacy but no words came out because there was never a you before and I didn’t even know that my garden existed before you

I talk to God about you, I ask him to protect you, I tell him how special you are, I talk to God about you

I am as beautiful as a flower, as strong as the waves in the oceans

I talk to God about you, and he reminds me that just like the roots in nature I will reattach and grow back stronger, and he reassures me that I’m only victim the “you” potion

And in return I still ask God to protect you.

Forget our sterile strains of green,
soft, choking lawn.

Forget our fertilizers, chemicals,
and killers.

Let our families relearn to walk
with nothing between the Earth
and their bare feet.

Let us remember the native seed.

ugh...
english English
and american English -

that famous war
of phonetics:

toe-may-t'oh
    tomato -
t'oh-m'ah-toe...

as far as i'm concerned
the dictionary lies...
****'s up with
potatoes and tomatoes?

i play tennis with
ha-shem...

   /təˈmɑːtoʊ/

ʊ: is not a macron O
    ō, but it is:
         H            |            H
kicking down the middle...
oh...
    oh really...
        really?

don't get fooled by the
upper-tier alphabet
rewrite of a word
with disparaging encoding
lettering...

   and when i feel lazy:
i listen to the blues...

and it's not really about potatoes
and tomatoes...
  it's also about
leisure and labor...
    how did that doctor
of classics claim the word /
utter it?

  leisure = lee-ßure -
not lay-ßure...

          but lee-ßure...
like lesion...
      
   and if you knew anything
about graphemes:
ß = S & Z
  interchangeably -
    which is also equivalent
to the slavic SZ...
or SH in the germanic tongues...

poe-tay-t'oh...
       not poo-tay-t'oh...
not toe-may-t'oh...
  t'oh-m'ah-toe...

and isn't this the obvious
presence of the Hebrew
puzzle of ha-shem?

                tow-may-tow...
toe-may-toe...
tow-may-toe -
   toe-may-tow...

          m'ah... breath / consonant
catcher...
              in this instance...


is it really lesion / lee-ßure
and not lay-assurance,
i.e. lay-sure?
           leisure, really?
lesion,
lee-ßure...
                
                   i almost forgot
to figure this word out...
  that being said...
i can't believe that i focused
my ontological basis
on the ground of etymology,
rather than the Darwinism
plot-line...

           the prevalent word(s),
and...
           this is really a poem about
when i was laughed at
during a coach trip
to the swimming pool from
St. Augustine's school
for swimming lessons....

apparently the sports brand...
in England...
is pronounced
Pjúm'ah...
      and not Púm'ah...
  Puma...
                
    from there on in...
   pew m'ah... haunted it...
   when someone attempts to correct
your pronunciation?
your grammar?
      
   hmm...
                     you buckle down,
and dig a trench;
and ensure your tongue
and fingers turn into a machine
gun that ingests the dropping
bodies as fertilizers
for the come: poppies and
beetroots.

SOW HUMATA

The soul so battered is, by its deeds n misdeeds;

it's the wicked mind that sows thorny seeds,

happily then, it water n fertilizers, to it feeds;

dangerously, poisonous thoughts, are like weeds.

With constant Humata, Hukht, Huvareshta we must string  beads

seeing that our mind n heart, to our conscience heeds.

pay full attention we must, to our spiritual needs

after all, to Ahura Mazda, it is our Humata that leads.

Armin Dutia Motashaw