"They call him a magic man"
"There's no such thing as..."
"As what, magic?"
"..."

And the coffin hit the banks in Burma
Mud on the feet of a white man, stranger
"I came in search of truth, can you help me?"
The two men sat awake, drinking alcohol
Fermented and brewed by hand and the locals watched
Flaking hut, the bamboo was broken, he wondered how

"They say he has the power to heal"
"And yet I don't believe you"
"Find him"

The trees were dusted and the Antelope were grazing
In the Kalahari I found my guide, we smoked and died
By the fireside, I lied about the tide
He took my hand, I lost my stride
The Nile ran red and I awoke covered in sweat

Phantom structures of glass and brick, apparent not to I
A world of stars and the translucent eyes of a *******
The grinning dawn was mournful as we fell from barriers
The guards were boiled alive but their guns survived
And the California beaches were beckoning

I lay down on the road, calling out to Kerouac and receiving nothing but a jolt as the cars massaged my flailing back, and the monkeys were howling as a witch doctor calls

The small boy read the lacquered book with glistening nails adorned
The tide was vile, washed him away with a sly smile

A great **** at the doors of a church, masks discarded
The preacher man watched with a snarl, upturned lip
Gripped by fear the small boy clawed his way to the banks
He banked on life
Gambled with a choice and won

Burmese man-child, hashish in the pipe
Tell me of the story of your life
The bamboo pipes

A lighter falling through space, as the astronaut suffocates
Nicotine daze and a greyish haze, through the eternal maze
And we lay awake for days and days

A tank would fall from the mountain top
Crushing just one daffodil
and the bamboo mourned

Muddy river ran dry
Today, the day I die

Herds of
Black and white
Zebra butterflies
Floating far and wide
Through the
Kalahari Desert
Approaching the
The tall
Milk sweet grass
After the
Monsoon season
At last at last

One night in Provincetown
@2013 Linda Barrett


On my niece Jessica’s wedding
in the middle of July
The three of us weren’t invited
for the wedding rehearsal dinner
Instead of staying around the hotel,
That night
we went out on our own fun
just Alex, Kathy and I

We walked into Provincetown
searching for a place to eat
Looked at all the menus
and what entree to buy
discovered Pepe’s Wharf
sat on its deck
watched the Coast Guard’s fleet
ate boiled lobster and french fries
just the three of us
Alex, Kathy, and I

Our waiter, Derek, adored Alex
with his excellent restaurant manners
Two Lesbians admired his etiquette
A young straight couple made it complete
with their unified, approving sigh
Everyone on the deck admired us
Alex, Kathy, and I

On the Deck,
We linked our glasses in a toast
Alex with his Shirley Temple cocktail
Kathy with her white wine
Me with my diet Coca Cola
Smitten Derek played the host
told us of the pirates museum
the one that made Alex hum
we all thought it was fine
to see it with him
We left Pepe’s wharf
with our spirits high
toured the rest of Provincetown,
Alex, Kathy, and I







We walked upon cobblestone streets
still the same since
the 18th century
Ancient homes stood as witnesses
to the tall woman in
her Sonoma  sun dress
the red haired boy with the necktie
the middle aged woman
Clad in turquoise and white
and black high heeled sandals
' wandering on a Friday night
wondering residents passed us by
as we walked on the pavement
we impressed them all
Alex, Kathy, and I

The evening grew dark
we walked wherever we went
Motorcycles roared on the street
Drag queens dressed to the nines
We went into the stores
Stared at by dogs and artists
Kathy led me to a boutique
called Toho
bought a bracelet for my wrist
something unique
Alex got a Bear Claw pie
We astounded the parade
with our differences
and the commotion they made
at  Alex, Kathy, and I
We found out of the night
footprints of some African cat
from some bright yellow paint
followed their shiny way
down a side street
Kathy tried not to laugh
where it ended
A place called
the Kofu Kafe
Seretta the owner entertained us
with her South African thrills
displayed for Alex
Kalahari porcupine quills
We drank coffee
and South African sweets
let the time slowly fly
under the cafe’s sparkling ceiling
Just Alex, Kathy and I





At around ten
We three took off
Down the dark streets
To roam
I led  the way
with my feeble flashlight
Shining upon uneven cobblestones
walked past hand holding men
try to get ourselves
to our temporary home
silently say good bye
to our new found friends
and return to our beds
Alex, Kathy, and I

Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, when the cliff tops call its name with disparaging diatribe? And how do you fare as the undulating waves tell tales of a million generations of fish? I sat there as the days wore on like so many jazz men beating holistic drums and blowing those crazy brass horns as if possessed by the demons of some ancient tribe way out in the Kalahari, masked by the illuminating stares of wonderment and the children in the darkened bar, silent, speculating. I see the waning wood through magnificent trees, behemoths in the dusk skies. I see the ground too, for it is stable and true. As true as one could attest to its objectivity, I often ponder the relevance of truth and whether the whole concept is but a twisted lie fed by the men before us. Quite cruel these thoughts, and barely worthy of the hours I waste. The ocean too speaks truth but its truth is one I have faith in. Sure as I am, sitting here, witnessing the waves as they mourn the changing sands and the rubble they sift, sure as I am, that the gently faltering ripples will retreat before attacking the shore once more. I am sure of these acts, as I am sure that I will die with laughter on my lips and a tear in my eye.
Take your water and let it flow through the bodies of man, take it, take it and do good. Let those clear drops circulate and bring about true knowledge in one and all.
Let your rocks fall to the ground, erosion of the city and decay of the populace. Let them fall with dignity, while we scream from the Atlantic and feel tumultuous waves of apathetic foreboding ripple into our skin and bring us to ******.
These rocks in the sea, these rocks in you… and in me.
Has the land seen distress like its inhabitants, or have they been the harbingers of such malcontent abuse to these fare isles? Have you, You, have you seen the sea when its tranquil repose turns to solemn spite at the ego of the cliff face? I have heard the ocean speak, and it told me to fall to its mercy and ebb into the unified conscious.
Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, or do you too stand with your back to the truth and one leg bowed cocksure over the top of some deteriorating construct?

Under the unforgiving summer sun, their small, winged bodies hover from one flowering plant to another, working tirelessly in the sweltering heat as we laze in the shade...

Their work is endless, the product harvested in minutes. Smoked into a stupor while we steal their treasures, and if some of them die, so be it...

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
revered before by human royalty and great innovators,

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
who connects life and death,
whose children killed the demon Arunasura in India,
and were prophets to the gods in Greece and Rome.

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
her bees fell from the sun in Egypt,
aided the first living man in Uganda,
and created man from the back of a mantis in the Kalahari Desert.

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
her children are the origin of magic in Eastern Europe,
a source of fertility and a connection to nature in North America,
and fierce, terrifying warriors in the South.

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
the Great Mother,
the root of being,
the bridge to the afterlife,
we owe her children our lives,
the least we can do is spare them their's.

Inhale and exhale 46664 times... My heart spent 27 years behind bars of my skinny ribs; I remember every inch of her Tibia and Fibula...

The Cold air from our long distance formed cracks inside my heart, luckily these cracks never developed large enough for you to escape. And if you did escape; I'd go standing in the Kalahari desert tracing your every step back to the exact tile where the first syllables from our mother tongue has made the Click. "QuQuQaQa" what if our past was written on stone by feathers of an ostrich? The same ostrich who ate the seeds from our forefathers now growing inside his stomach...
  
#My bare feet are standing ontop of shining stones similar to the ones found in Kimberley: Kimberley the place where untold stories are buried beneath the Soil of guilt... So, Can you DIG it, Sucker!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

in the absence
of
the beloved
Switzerland
feels like
the Kalahari
the Sahara
or the Mojave
desert
and
heaven
becomes
hell

when
i
look up
at
the
Kalahari  Sky
all i can see
are
large herds of
zebra  striped clouds
running wild and free
so effortlessly
to
the
sacred beat of
the
enchanted African drum
then
back to the one beat
with
a pentatonic melody
jumbo...jumbo
hello...hello everyone

Mysteriously, like a seed
growing underground, consciousness
spreads into the world
seeking a presence to devour.

Like a lion lurking in the Kalahari bush,
consciousness crouches, hidden
within the body, not merely the brain,
waiting for its prey to emerge
from a field of nothingness,
to reveal its essence.

An act, a desire, a pure intentionality,
consciousness pounces on its prey,
embracing its whole presence,
filling in the many sides unseen,
teasing out its eidos.

In itself, consciousness is nothing,
a darkened grain of wheat
buried in the ground. It awakens
only at the stirrings of
the next manifestation.

Always, eternally
a consciousness-of,
it roams my room,
zooming past the myriad
items cluttering my gestalt,
fixing on the single form
it has come to inform.
Consciousness waits
for no one.

Uneasy until it grasps
the one thing necessary,
consciousness expands
and expands, actively roaming
among the wonders of my world.

It acts, but I cannot take hold of it.
It has me in its reflexive spell:
All consciousness is self-consciousness.
And I, in myself, am nothing.

Academic meanness in the blend of old age crisis
Have over-taken the only professor in my country,
He began with a colonial Maths diploma to his current air
Of Doctorate in history of his ethnic pristine African village,
He served all the universities as the chancellor of chancellors,
Unto now to his octogenarian age dressed in full suits of bitterness,
He is strongly jealousy to full scale of intellectual blindness,
In full plumage of faith that none else went to school after himself,
In the parochial mental realm of his foot steps on the sands of time
Being the features and land-marks of education in the land of Africa,
He hates other scholars with passion, but no iota of reason
He feels them defective as their tribes can not produce a professor,
His fear is that who will teach PhD. students after his death,
He refers to his family as center of everything, none else can do
Other than his glorious sons and daughters from his dear wife,
Mrs. Professor speaks twenty four languages; Greek and Russian,
A mere saucer to her strong linguisticised African mandibles,
Who else on earth can have a wife of this sterling caliber?
That made the Kalahari and Sahara deserts to have thunder.

I dreamt of love in the time of vast journeys
I dreamt of death in an aura of secrecy
I dreamt that the miscarriage of justice would be uncovered
I dreamt that every line I wrote would ascend heavenward

I dreamt of partisan politics defeating the world order
I dreamt Cameron, Osborne and Johnson
were in court for crimes against humanity

I dreamt that dreaming was banned under a new set of laws
I dreamt I carved a turkey and couldn't recall Christmas’s name

I dreamt I was on Safari in the Kalahari Desert
I dreamt people realised that they did not control the future
and love held sway

I dreamt the reality of the weather was beyond us
I dreamt that we meant something
I dreamt lying in bed was comforting
I dreamt that film Riot Club was altogether fiction

I dreamt the next sunset would be my last
and enjoyed my last day as no other.

CHANGES

.....”and if the elevator breaks down,
go crazy!”
--Prince, from “Purple Rain”
~~~~~
Is it possible to
hear the rain whisper
to the forest
as it falls between
thirsty trees;
as it converses
dark oboe concertos
with musky,
leaf cluttered earth?
Or to follow
water’s cycle
from the calmness
of the hurricane’s eye,
seeking each molecule
as it links with
oxygen green skies?
~~~~~
Impossible?
But, these random acts,
riotous developments,
are common place,
hum drum, every day
rainbow dreaming
compared to the
possibilities of human
creativity
interactions
and conscious probabilities,
of touching inside
subatomic flows,or standing beside
Jupiter’s cyclops eye
as it penetrates into the soul of
a wicked Miles Be-Bop note
exploding the myth of
humanities inhumanity!
~~~~~
****!
Genghis Khan,
Attila the ***
were angels
gleefully dancing
on the head of a pin
compared to the atrocities of
“human nature” fables
of “selfish genes”,
“bell curves”,
Broca’s brains,
or some god fed, bred
morality of “original sin”,
and “semper fidelis”.
Even Alexander,
slaughtering only hundreds of thousands
in his conquests
built libraries and
stood “enlightened”
compared to today
“****’em all, let God
sort it all out” mentality;
or a more accepted version,
“why, some of my best friends are...”
~~~~~
Have you ever dreamed
a different reality?
Of feeling the wind
in a Van Gogh wheat field?
Or, flying on his “Starry Night” beauty?
Have you ever hoped of being a “Centennial Person”?
Human,
not the robot
powerless automaton
making a handful prosper
while we bleed
nuts and bolts of
everything for a price,
everything for sale.
While for most, we need
need, just to live.
And they say
I am insane
crazy
out of my mind!
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!!
Excuse me as I laugh
in your face,
as I look to create a place
to take off my hat
relax, and call home.
Like the black Panther,
Quetzal, or Leopard
I too seek the musky
earth and canopy
of verdurous rain forests;
to bath in crystal,
sun reflecting mists
of mile high water falls;
to drink from mineral rich
mountain streams.
~~~~~
Like sister Elephants
raising their new generations,
discussing the re-emergence of Kalahari
after a Spring thunder storm,
I seek the unfettered
creativity
collectively
voluntary comradery
of human minds
working for the common good,
sharing in the common efforts
of a world made better
as future generations
discuss blue green
oceans where we all
first emerged so many
millennium ago.
~~~~~
I am ready,
still fairly young.
Proletarian sisters, brothers
hand me a gun,
hurry cause
I can see the
Revolutionary People’s Army
storming old
**** encrusted
bourgeois citadels.
What force can stop us?
We are the mountain wind
sweeping down
thru valleys,
over plains.
We are irrepressible,
irresistible.
We have a world to win.

Aztec Warrior 10.4.15

You want to travel
You want to walk
You want to feel
and grasp the world
you want to stare at it
be one with it
with your own eyes
with your own body
with your soul
with me

I ask why
It has to be
me

Are you searching
for something
Or is it because
I'm free

Either way
I want to know
So we both
get an answer
from the unknown

I once read
Sir Laurens van der Post's
Story about 'Hunger'

He said:
"The Bushmen
in the Kalahari Desert
talk about two "hungers"
There is the Great Hunger
and there is the little hunger
The Little Hunger
wants food in the belly
The Greater Hunger
the greatest hunger of all
is the hunger for meaning"

And you said:
Maybe that's why
your feet wants to
dance and run
for meaning

Maybe that's why
my mouth wants
to taste and eat
for meaning

Maybe that's why
you feel that
your heart
has hole in it

You said that you
you long for me
you miss me

I stop from walking
I think about
what your feeling

Maybe that's
what we are
Occupants of Time
Traveller for meaning
Constantly searching
Never ending expedition
In greater lengths of life
We don't wait
for the morning light
we change ourselves
in the afternoon of our life
and in the evening
we'll realize everything
has its own meaning

I was thought
to never forget
where you came from
cause after all the running
and searching for everything
we'll all go back from
the beginning
where everything
means nothing
and nothing means
everything to life

Eventually what we have
will be take away from us
What we are will fade
and return to dust
After nothingness
is a life waiting to be lived

You said that life
without love has no meaning
and said your definition
of love is me
and the world is our
safest place
and beside me
is your favorite space
That's why you want to give
the world a dance it deserves
A dance with me
Music will come rushing
from our spine
our souls intertwine
our feet will take its path
our hearts will bring
happiness to the everything
You said that you need me
and you're pessimistic
you choose to
soak yourself
with pain
with sadness
not fighting back

But don't forget about
what I said to you
that I am here for you

You'll always
have my back
when life
pushes you down
sadness starts
to be pour
to the brim
give it to me
Let's drink it
together

You're the Yin
and I'm your Yang
and together
we'll not fall down

Life may bring you down
but I am here for you

Life may take you down
but I am here for you

Life may pull you down
but I am here for you

Don't forget I'm here
Don't forget I'm here
I'm here for you

Life may bring your down
Life may take you down
Life may pull you down
but I'm here for you

Life may break you down
but I am here for you

running from left to right.
sharing the best moment like the journey is about to end.

people gossip about us.
where are they going to end.
my toffolax  hug me and **** the honey I carried in my mouth.
for the joy of two birds in the Kalahari desert seeking water in the dry land.

shouting, laughing ,chasing each other like in the picnic being ready to push one onother  in the Merry go round.

how super it is to travel and to climb mount Kilimanjaro and see the stars in the vivid position.

making the memorable day ever.
love will always blow our minds
only when we are opening our ears for each other

/NI LIFE/
Sometimes mi hu-wrong nikijaribu ku-correct,na mi si perfect so daily niko  kwa  risklt ya ku-loose vitu ata  nili-collect,so we skiza hii  tune,yeah ofcourse hii tune si  unajua mali safi zi huzinduliwa June.Pingu za maisha nishanunua shoneni vitenge juu nazifunga soon.

Samahani,back then kudish kwa sahani kwangu ilisound kifahari,world yangu ilikuwa so untrue na mauongo ki-kanyari,kupata kwangu then ilisound ka monkey kuonekana kalahari,nyi mkinyonga tai zangu nabaki ni  nyoka nanyonga,ni  saa  nane  usiku nikiexhaust my poetic pen igeuze words ziwe dishi,DJ akiscratch ilikuwa opportunity ya kuflow nayo  na mistari haziishi,mtaa 1960 ndio iliniwai courage ya kusimama mbele ya mahater nikiwashow hii mwaka haiishi meza moja na nyinyi tudishi.

Mi hu-acknoledge power ya sir God jo juu ya kuniblessia creativity tangu pre-unit,usitafte amani  bila unity certificate ya kugraduate from petty poet to plenty of poems nikailaminate na case ya glass,after kuchoma kuna wasee nilianza nao na siko nao  si  zao ziliwashow wako "high" class,hii  dunia ni ya God so ka unaplan downfall yangu jua success naiwai a thousand times plus.

Hii sanaa  mi hufanya si  rahisi,ata ka Nadia na kalikuwa kashaa tamba ilibidi ameitisha maombi,ka si Sunday siogi,mi nimezoea kula jasho yangu that's why unaskia nikiongea sh*t that is stinky.

So ukihustle na biz ya kuuza charcoal jua ***** hands zi hukuwa sign ya clean money,na since muka aende silent mi ndio nimekuwa nikiwasha nare kwa stage bila lyta,mi ndio nimekuwa nikijua mbona mapema ye hurauka.Hii time short nimekuwa hapa nilikuwa na blessings za mama no wonder sijastammer,ka nimekubamba scratch kwa tenje uniseti...stage ndio home na sijaplan kuhama.
-P€TT¥PO€T ✍️
©2020.

frying plantains in Tanzania
with rice - so much rice
ageing postmen with bus passes and metal knees
carrying keisters of it
a thousand different ways

slow walkers
married, always
frittering away chances or just
connected,
with the mortal coils of the market?

big coat on in the Kalahari

your scorpions absent from the guest list,
exiled.
the brown bears caged, but should things have
really.
come to this?

fierce heat.
fizzing geysers rumpled by grey fluorescent lights and
plagued,
by the speeding steam trains of their past that took them to
SO MANY GREAT PLACES but they only recall the
endings.
the crashing off the tracks,
the unexpected landslides

revolve
navigate the ridge and don’t funk from looking down.
it is better this way.

stamp the scorpions in.
£5 on the door.

take the free round and dance around their nimbus because even though you WILL NEVER
know them,
you would NOT
BE HERE.
without them.

your corner patch
a feral patch given over to woodworms and weeds
but a patch without chains,
shaded by roses suffering a kind of pressure you will never understand.

the naan breads arrived 40 minutes early and ruined your bath but
WHAT
A
PRIZE.

to exist in a rainforest where naan breads are possible.
and ferns unfurl,
then hang,
and rise again.

frying plantains in Tanzania
slow married women bearing grain

carry your cactuses out into the sun.
feed them.
watch them.

be naked with your scorpions and really feel the
football finals
the canal gates
the shooting stars, zooming by
through the windows of the train.

We have ridden camels
in the Kalahari,
Flew Eagles over Canada,
walked across the Niagra.

We have boated up the
Nile and pierced the
catacombs of Rome.
We made love by the
red rock in Australia.

Our adventures overlap
memory.
We've spun the Sun and
tossed the moon,
walked on coals,
groomed gorillas and
climbed to Lhasa.

We were married in Tibet,
among the Chinese stalls,
made our way to India
and slept with tigers.

The planet swings
as we kiss, and spins
to the rhythm of Joy.


Caroline Shank

dreams
are
white water rapids
we
flow
through
the
Kalahari desert

Our bees aren't social distancing,
As they buzz about the hive;
The ants aren't wearing masks
In their pismires, yet they thrive.

Racoons wash without soap,
Llamas spit  without remorse,
Monkeys' feces fill the air,
Dogs are crapping everywhere,
The watering holes of the Kalahari
Have larger crowds
Than political rallies.

Every insect, bird and beast,
With scale or feather, beak or teeth,
With legs or wings, bellies or fins,
Still swim or fly, walk or crawl;
We succumbed before them all.
It's back to Eden,
Back to the fall.

Mysteriously, like a seed
growing underground, consciousness
spreads into the world
seeking a presence to devour.

Like a lion lurking in the Kalahari bush,
consciousness crouches, hidden
within the body, not merely the brain,
waiting for its prey to emerge
from a field of nothingness,
to reveal its essence.

An act, a desire, a pure intentionality,
consciousness pounces on its prey,
embracing its whole presence,
filling in the many sides unseen,
teasing out its eidos.

In itself, consciousness is nothing,
a darkened grain of wheat
buried in the ground. It awakens
only at the stirrings of
the next manifestation.

Always, eternally
a consciousness-of,
it roams my room,
zooming past the myriad
items cluttering my gestalt,
fixing on the single form
it has come to inform.
Consciousness waits
for no one.

Uneasy until it grasps
the one thing necessary,
consciousness expands
and expands, actively roaming
among the wonders of my world.

It acts, but I cannot take hold of it.
It has me in its reflexive spell:
All consciousness is self-consciousness.
And I, in myself, am nothing.

The 4am need of smoke with clear cold sky and blanket.
Kalahari desert of old.
Hominini are wondering about water and grub.
Butterflies are playing with flowers.
Purple is moving forward with no regard.
Now Humans are here - and the tank is almost empty.
The sun burns hard through the smoke cleared.
Clean is the sphere - but expected kindness was not to be.
Clear of purple violet is the new fear.

Time does not wait for compassion.
Earth will rebell and take her children back.

her
heart
raced then leaped
like
a swift gazelle
running
from
the
hungry jaws of a lion
through
the
Kalahari Plains
oh
the
swift heart of a gazelle