News photo of the Rwandan dead
bobbing naked at the base
of waterfall. Wide hips and narrow
shoulders, surely a young woman once
sexually active. No solution
to death's finality.

Is the production and distribution
of food and other essential services
fragile or deeply embedded.
Can or cannot the economy
support the growing or diminishing population.
The Road Warrior, however shallow,
attracts for its vision of social breakdown
and the sources of regeneration. Of course
Jane Jacobs is more complex and compelling.

The Rwandan dead
had dalliances and alliances.
It is the indignity of their exposure
and the rapid decay of their former lives,
mere mulch, fertilizer
for wild vegetation.
Molecular bonds loosening
and joining new forms.

How do the vast darkness
extending to the ends of the expanding
universe and the temporal light of human
consciousness interact
to make the world?

April 5th 1994- Kurt Cobain dies
April 6th 1994- The President of Rwanda Dies
April 7th 1994- Kurt Cobain's body is found
April 7th 1994- A genocide begins.
Neighbors take arms against neighbors
People he once shared a sandbox with now hold a machete to his neck
Heads roll- literally
Babies cry out to their mothers who lie there choking on their own blood
Girls who 2 days ago were playing house with their dolls, now take care of their whole family
Screams of pain from girls who's innocence is taken from the man who used
           to bounce them on his knee.
Gathered in the place where God is supposed to be
Hundreds are murdered ruthlessly.
Guns not pointed at their heads
But clubs that smash them in.
Achilles' heels slashed
These men drink and feast and sleep
Over the screams of their victims
Babies born 9 months after these men took something that was not theirs to
           take
A physical representation of all that is evil and hatred and pain
She tries to love them anyway
But she sees him in them
He has daddy's eye
She has her fathers nose
She sees them in the way he looks at her when he's hungry
As if she is just there to quench that thirst with her body.

The whole word is split in 2
Nobody is Rwandan anymore
You are Hutu or Tutsi
Short or tall
Human or vermin.
The dead among the living
Sometimes I can't tell which is which
Until I see it
That sparkle of hope in that one man's eye
Because the human spirit will never die.
The father of his best friend tortured and murdered his mother on their
           front lawn.
Orphaned and afraid,
He cannot stop
He cannot slow down
He cannot give up
Because ***** Kurt Cobain
he has to tell the story of what really happened that day
Rwanda April 7th 1994

Rwandan orchid
I will not let reality
Take over my positive imagination
In all seriousness
Logic and peace
We must rebel
Against our own desires
Of manufactured comfort
With smiles
Budding sweet tears
Affirmative genocide
Apathetic anonymous

She accidentally looked back into eternity and it is telling her things. Constantly questioning whether it could have been on purpose. She wishes it had told her about the day that she went missing for too long. She is still missing. Missing so many things that happen and those as close as possible. She is missing them too.

She existed to be this close to missing everyone forever. Everyone missing her forever. Missing her orange kisses and purple thoughts. He left messages in blue in her thoughts. To see if it could make a shady spot in the bright yellow sun.  This is where they would sit and possibly lay down. There were so many shimmering waves in the grass that loose clothing rippled. Her dress was waving to clouds being emptied by the sunshine.

If they were to lay in bent grass blades could it be the last time. The last time the blades bent back and the feeling of beauty penetrating hearts couldn’t let go. The last thing they could ever want. No turning back. Time is bending the blanket.

Time decided to take some space to itself. To get back to nature and living with things we cannot stop. Life kept being left in the street with holes made in it by fear and hatred that is white. Life kept being told by whiteness that is was not real.

In this space that time took to itself the institution of white needed to become colorful like rainbows and hadn’t documented in its constitution that it needs to become different shapes and sounds that may be hard for it to resonate with while investing in such militant social systems of oppression overflowed from slavery in order to become a space other than time allows for a short duration yet brutally eternal and ending now as today unfolds and life proves it is real as time rips it apart openly and its institution of white judges itself into the panic of being so insensitive that vengeance has no other shapes, colors or sounds to choose other than violet revolt.

Violet made handprints in clay as a small child while reserving words for family that were taken from her. She smiled into the abyss of pleading that is too late for forgiveness. A silence of the white institution that could no longer be a burden in space for time to want anything to do with it ever again. Violet was intimate with the space that time took to itself. She nourished it with colors, intelligence, senses, shapes, love, merciless unforgiving power and purple thoughts were always encouraged.

Violet’s orange kisses burned into the early morning making the institution of whiteness a kind of blue. All that was left of it was confused and squinting at the colors of its new shape. It was demanding to know how long the spell had been on them and what to do now. Violent explained in senses and climate changing shapes of darkness and bright red lava and flashing pink clouds that there is no now.

part 2

I hope you like my shape of communication. I hope you can appreciate the brutality of the beauty in decomposing the unnecessary manifestation of apocalypse. The writer wants you to know its him. The narrator wants you to know its her. The sentence is time taking space to itself. Grammar is more of a blue than purple. The shape is the sense of confusion which is also the ****** of realizing eternity. The details are up to your imagination not mine or the author or writer or {[(black/white)[(black women/white women) + during slavery and after] + (Americans) (to make the *** trade of slavery possible) (political intellectually engineered institution)] [(mixed race) (native)(black African) (the rest of the world not isolating themselves in the social construction of whiteness)]} = having to create my own language because I don’t exist like I need to in the institution of whiteness (I have to feel it more than it feels me) that has a completely different meaning and purpose of imagined structure or patterns or symbols that outnumbers mathematics that are statistical boundaries invested in with the language that power is behind it somewhere that can only be found by using it.

Its uncomfortable for me to write the things I feel without feeling the need to prove their value to you. To build a relationship and undo it before we get to comfortable with each other. I know that you will never forget this during all your desperate imagination of reading and life. A thread that is undeniable through shapes colors and sounds but grammarless rhythm with more sensual texture than colonial organization and its friend decolonization making love instead of war most of the time.

So this again is why time has taken space to itself. The shapes of objectification in our solar system layering our consciousness with objectifying existence in space unimaginably vast and then gone all of the sudden. Actually assumptions are our specialty so we are intimate with them and emotive beyond anything real.

Vibrations sound like waves and look like shapes. She surfed on the shape of waves. She lives on the shape of waves balancing them with focus and intent. Of course she is going to use the most obscene language of the oppressor to react and demand the same brutal trauma is being redirected by her with exponential adaptivity as aggressively as colonialism on the institution of whiteness that changes little details of its shape to suit its foundation as the need for free labor based on her skin color and also the genes of her skin color to by association allow enslavement of light skin hims.  

Section 3

The flowers sat at the drum set to communicate spring. Some felt uncomfortable and decided to advocate for the drums.

“The drums are symbolic not just the symbols. Why should the symbols get the credit as being symbolic?”

As a gesture of listening, acceptance, and understanding. Guns turned to hyacinth flowers with jasmine bullets. The fragrance took violence over with a brutal ferociousness no one knew flowers had.

That same sunny day I became 6 shades darker in the growing power of the sun. That morning the same perspectives of my identity changed twice. In the morning the institution of whiteness (IOW) declared a false sense of solidarity with how I looked to them. That evening they ignored me like that never happened. They were squinting with confusion and nodding at each other.

The IOW was making a habit out of black identity. Settling with the concept that being black is having holes from their police and being silenced on streets or in the passenger seats of cars with their families. The IOW was making it a custom to advertise being black as dying.

A Rwandan orchid blossomed right at that moment. The IOW abruptly spit out their coffee and stood up together in disbelief. The sheer unexpected beauty became an unbearable pressure on their hearts.

The heart? Since this Orchid blossomed the shape of the IOS did not allow anyone but themselves to have a heart. This realization that the others had hearts was a serious need for a group huddle.

“These others with hearts we must assimilate with them as soon as possible!”

It might have been the deep fragrance of hyacinth and Jasmine, she thought aloud, or maybe the purple thoughts, but then again Violet played a huge part in paving the way for the blossoming Orchid. Cushioned by bent grass blades and a timeless blanket they intertwined in the shade of the bright yellow sun.

Read, watched, Listened for snippets
Wore the buttons,
Devoured anything…
Apartheid

Had my own personal
Bedroom Revolution...
Jumped high…In place… with the best of them
Little balled up fists…
Pumping…
Chanted the chants
Sang the song

Freeee-ee Nelson Mandelaaaa
Freeee-ee Nelson Mandelaaaa

And I meant it!  
Oh My God I meant it from my
young revolutionary soul
Cried adolescent girl cries
For our South African brothers and sisters
All of the martyrs
Known and unknown

STOP APARTHIED!
STOP APARTHIED!

Free Nelson Mandela!!

To this very day

I love me some Nelson Mandela

Love the man he is
Mourn the man he was
Big Fine Educated Pugilistic
African
Man
Passionate
Compassionate
On that serious mission

Who, though technically still breathing upon his release, in reality
Gave his life
To promote the cessation of
An idea more merciless even than the Rwandan genocide
In that Death
Seldom came quickly
A system more sadistic even than the African Slave Trade
In that it was not based economically

Therefore ALL the
“Kaffers”
Could be maimed or die
And it wouldn’t cost a thing…
Monetarily speaking

A society wherein
Each Black death  
Someone’s Job… or
Someone’s Entertainment
Every atrocity’s purpose to serve only to
Douse fuel on the already
Brightly burning fire of
Hate and torture and hate

I love Nelson Mandela

For making like David
And having the *****
To take on the Goliath
Apartheid

Satan is creative
His minions resourceful
We will never know the indignities;
Can only imagine the violations
My Nelson was forced to endure
Imprisoned for 27 years

I love
Nelson Mandela
For having the strength
To keep living
When so many others couldn’t
Still able to put
One
In front of
The other
Albeit gingerly
But still locomoting
Out of hell
On his own two feet…
That alone makes him a hero
To me

In my heart he will always be
The

Big
Fine
Educated
Pugilistic
Passionate
Compassionate
Hero
­
That the young revolutionary in me
sings about…

At his little hippie college
he shows me a *** that looks like a wall
in a Rwandan museum, all skulls, he

learned clay in the Rift Valley
boarding school, on a kick wheel,
still his favorite

My brother is a potter
multicolor plaid shorts
little goatee

Banjo
Japan dreams
girl from Mozambique.

When we were little in Loiyangalani
we made tiny huts out of obsidian
while our Rhodesian Ridgebacks

sniffed the ground for cobras
sand vipers
scorpions

while twenty camels
walked by in a row
followed by tiny replicas

My brother is a potter, says to me
'When I am doing this I am
doing what I was created to do'

He makes a green and blue
candleholder for me which he calls
'The Islands,' light escapes through many holes

which look like sea turtles
pockets of air and
an atomic bomb just gone off

we turn off the lights
in my room in the hood,
snorkel in candlelight

My brother gives me
Rumi, incense, peace flags
We walk the silent night

smoke a clove
look at stars
like we used to do in the African riverbeds

As humankind evolves in time
What used to be primitive tribes
Guarding territory, people, progeny
And food, have mutated into
Governments flaunting flags and political
Agendas to fulfil, within four years,
Drafted on greed, implemented
By concocting fear.

Rulers hence redraw, imaginary lines
Based solely on war, and conquest
Fostering survival of the fittest,
The law of the jungle established
In allegedly civilised societies,
Lobotomised by technologies,
PCs and mobiles made of black
Sands, from Congo with love.

Four million people killed by war,
For tantalite to be mined,
Purchased and transformed
In modern gadgets we all own.
Other resources elsewhere up
For bids by unbidding forces,
‘Take what you like and as you please’
The silent motto composing our wellbeing.

Gold, blood diamonds, petrol and water
Conflicts, justifying decades of ******
Worldwide, from Middle East unrest
To Rwandan genocide, passing through
Sudanese Darfur to cross the ocean
Fight for land, tear down forests,
Grow soybeans for vegans,
Pastor sheep for jumpers.

Now modern times have come
New notions are ****** to hypnotise,
Overpopulation for minds to criticise,
Though calculations unable to mystify
Grant eleven thousand square meters
Of inhabitable land per person. Space
Thus not being the issue rather, resources
Are deliberately unevenly distributed.

When twenty percent of the people
In developed nations consume
Eighty-six percent of the world’s goods
Leaving an average of thirty thousand
Humans die of hunger and malnutrition
Daily, there is no morality. When consequently
The remainder, comes knocking for survival
On closed doors, there is no humanity.

When we hide behind phantomatic
Risk-like borders and fake needs,
For two phones a PS4 and three TVs,
As we throw our dinner leftovers
In the garbage and let water
Run warm for 5’ before we shower,
Neglecting collective guilt, responsibility,
Laying fresh sheets on king-size beds,

Turning blind eyes to the news
And deaf ears to the door bell,

How on Earth can anyone sleep?

Until the day we shall all wake up
Notice NASA photos of our planet
Taken from above show no lines
Of separation, and that Earth is
Home to all, in equal measure.

Hot Durban nights.
Naked in the pool.
The Blue Waters.
Ebbing.

Next door, my grandfather tried to hold on to. His wife. Thirsty for oxygen. As I slide off the tilting roof, holding its water as it cast me off.
Into the nearby sea.
You muffled my coughs. The taste of Vicks still won't leave my mouth. But it's one of my fondest memories.

(By the bar where the Rwandan directors smoked dope.
Late night discussions the foolish call art.)

You, me and &*^%.
Your tattoos and little *******.
I thought were perfect.
Modelled after martinis we'd never drink.

(My broken phone kept calling Kote.
Kote panicked with this unknown.
Suspicious of coups.)

The hand cloth towel slipped off your body.
The pool water dripping onto the sheets.

(Our saviour in the township on that night we tempted fate, re-enacting rapes, the terrifying 12 left us, and her girlfriend tried to kiss me, alone in the car)

You walked into my hotel room.
Fourth floor.
You took the bible from the draw.
Fourth floor.
You threw it with a flick.
Fourth floor.
Then you ****** my
Fourth floor
And I fell
Fourth floor




asleep.

I'm here
To entertain
To play ukelele while
****** addicts in Prague score plump ***** poppies
Under a lazy summer sun
And their flirtations with death and their pursuit of high doses of deep oblivion
Are reduced to a journalist's article submission and the breathing, sweating, bleeding men and women are now
Still lights and colors in an image we can cast blank stares at
I play guitar
And the sound of riots that burned and looted chunks of Baltimore is now poignant accompaniement
For my dainty melodies
The hurling of insults, bottles and teargas
Are just the blazes of Rome for my fiddle
I'm here
As your fellow Rwandan and neighbor
to **** your daughter when our party has declared war upon yours
To chase you and your surviving family with machetes through the thick marshes that surround our farms
And then later mold that nightmarish scenery into a short video in which I
Beg you and the world for the sweet relief of forgiveness
In the background
I'll play a grand piano
I'm calling you
To perform my executive duty and express my heartfelt condolences for the death of your young husband
Whose name I've already forgotten and need to ask you for
Your reaction will be televised between toilet paper advertisements and blatant social conditioning

The pretty melody will continue throughout the daily openings of
Hands
arms
legs
eyes
mouths
cans
boxes
doors
gates
hearts
minds
And I'm not bitter or mad and I dont want you to be either
You think I'll leave you because a client got you pregnant but I wont
I'm here to take care of you in your 60usd hotel room when youre too sick to work
I'm still holding you tight after your close friend overdosed in the bathroom and died
I'm keeping my composure when the interviewer casually asks me if I hate everyone who doesn't look like me
I'm cheating all of my factory workers out of ever getting paid well
And then I'm sending them overseas to steal the jobs of college grads we hired
I'm being born while hundreds of people drown on the MS Estonia
And I'm dying from choking on a salty tortilla chip

Yet Still
The notes will calmly drift
Amidst the gunfire between rebels and regime in the rubble-laden deserts of Syria
Amidst the firm commands from Green Beret cadre to candidate in the lush woods of Camp Mackall
Through the inconviently fatal exit wounds in my teenaged chest
and the large caliber bullet holes in cheap beer cans I'm shooting for practice
I'm not telling you this so you can squeeze our experiences into a mondo film that ego-tripping critics will loathe
I just want you to not fixate so harshly on the particulars of how the codes you crack end someone's life on the other side of the world
And realize for a moment how many of your relationships are just thinly veiled plays made between you and your rut-enabling neuro transmitter dealer
I just want you to walk across this beautiful, extraordinary earth where giant beasts stomped and loving parents were murdered
Walk right over to where I am
And strum these strings
Entertain
While this world lives and breathes and pukes and cries and sings

Government policy on veterans: Give up or die
Don't give up or you will die
Tears in our eyes we fill up our
watercolor hearts with black gum
Oozing from pores, smell like ***** socks
Late night talks, how night talks to us
The truth will set you free
We stand in it, look out your back door
Use it or lose it, reason back in season
Typing on thin air, did a dime flat
Treating our veterans like that?
Like we commited Rwandan genocide attacks
Disrespect pinned to your chest like some sort of medal
Eat out of the trash, throw it away in the same **** can/bag
basil backdrops
These colors don't run

I often think in metaphors of war
Like Rwandan gun shots
And the unceasing ululations of our ancestors
We are sometimes mistaken for our actions
Like pacts of night-time comfort  
Made between black and white lovers
Or packs of rubbers and grief lost in a garden
We forgot that the fountain's hands had once been held
And gods had taught humans to dance on this patch of dirt
There was a time when your eyes looked so promising
That even I considered pondering momentarily
That something divine might exist in me
If only once more we could feel the stars speaking