PIN PRICK
Thirty second HIV test: positive or negative status indicated by the number of vertical stripes formed after a drop of blood has been introduced into a special solution contained in a small receptacle.
One line or two lines
never three lines
that’s the way it works
in this truth story
one line
two
lines
blood drips onto the plastic boat
you take a voyage to far off places
dark heaving places where your heart clots
becomes swollen saggy yellowish sacs
one line
two
lines
blood hits the boil
breath blows up a high pressure zone
eyes squirm with salt
a dead lifetime floats into the future
sunrays shine bright
even as they waver
one line
two
lines
only pulse beats away
the beginning or end of hot or cold kisses
seconds in which the mind and the memory
infect soft wet mucous
one line
two
lines
the ship’s doctor readies a white coat
furies leer along the coastline
you will bless or damn this voyage
but you cannot choose where to drop anchor
the choice long made long lived
or was it?
one line
two
lines
the crew’s down below
all those baring your sex
can you remember his or her face in the dark?
the slide into and out of that body
the heat
do you recall any cuts any sores in the days after?
do you recall any scratches?
one line
two
lines
you crouch as waves wash the deck
seek a life boat
where’s your jacket?
the escape hatch is locked
O T L
N I
E W N
L E
I O S
N
E
three’s a crowd in this pathology
that’s how it spreads
but
you can’t stop
“DANDELIONS IN THE DESERT”
A line from a poem by an inmate of ‘Sun City’ (Diepkloof Prison, Johannesburg)
Maximum security: murderers rapists hijackers
minimum sentence: fifteen years
some seek to smuggle their hearts out
smuggle out the bruises
branded in orange suits sterilized monks
divided according to their studies
ability to manage the daily blur of lockup
without shrieks conspiracies to escape
without records of internal mayhem
boxed in with a double-bunk table toilet radio tv
a few books to blot out the shiny concrete walls
boxed by scissor-sharp grill bars across a window
three men together so if one is killed
there’ll be a witness
they watch the clock hands with or without hope
with or without fear
for whatever happened happened
whatever took place at some place at some time
took place at some time
and now each day they must wake to boiled food
coarse and joking warders
smells of a cage the smells of other cages
stiff cocks or dead/soft
they must wake in the nights clutch their blankets
clutch themselves
clutch at the saviour sugared by chaplains
and these clean shaven men bring us their poetry
their cries and rants their whispers
yes some dare to look within the deeds
that cost life cost them their lives
these men bring out their poems
these clean thin smiling men
recite and chant then listen intently applaud ours
they come to dispel dead weight
starched sterile strips of living
these poems made of the guts of those who
took dignity took limbs took trust
took away from unknown strangers
took away from those they loved
those who loved them
yes some have visions of those
they murdered raped savaged soiled
and we sit in the rec room
try to paint faces on the smooth walls
the blank benches
word-seed fertilizing minutes hours months the years
ground out in this prison
we dissect give voice to the karma of crime
embrace the bearers of guns of knives
who carry no horns no jagged finger nails
no scars running from ear to neck
no gaping mouths no hunched backs
no foul breath swamping our noses
and they sit in rows and laugh
shout “bua!” when the mood rises
and the poetry lifts
and the poet entranced entrances
some few dare dream beyond this time
make instead of break
and we wonder at the world tribunal
the judges and the victims
who chorus a relentless refrain
its necessary sentence of retribution and waste
we wonder at this bringing evil and good
to the same table
this yoking of pain to the present
this wheel strapping us to nothing and madness
driving the hope of forgiveness of erasure
of release
we sit in the stale starched recreation room
and for an hour recreate this world
make it a place to live well
and when we leave i am able to ask these marauders
these violators:
“you who kill time for the crimes you committed
can you become the dandelions you wish to be
in this desert?
can you now know yourselves and love others?
can you prove yourselves wrong?
can you prove yourselves right?
FOOD FOR LIFE
Serengeti
Herds rivening the plain dust clouds blanket their rear
thousand year trail of wildebeest zebra gazelles
and in the rivers they must cross to reach the fresh grass
and along their banks
those creatures that live off their flesh
the crocodile the lion the leopard
even hippos roused from muddy pens
by the thrashing of frenzied flanks
all these creatures shaken by the thundering hoof-beat
waves of grass-eaters crashing into the current
dust-caked herds sweat-stained
running towards jaws tickling the long grass
and so the wind blowing downstream unsheathes reddening claws
submerged snouts bubble the water serrated rows ready to rip
furious with instinct
devoted celebrants of this over-riding boisterous blind movement
this pulse of strength speed cunning
this agony of the dying unable to staunch
the undying jubilation of survivors
for days the dust rises
herds roll stampede
blood pumps and spills and gushes
everything victorious
WHAT IS TO BE DONE?
A Question for Vlladimir Illyich Lenin
The beggar taps at the car window
shows his stump
the driver looks into his blood-shot eyes
looks at his rags
tells him about boom and bust
cycles of supply and demand
the movement for deregulation of lust
the beggar says ‘bread, any bread, boss”
the driver rolls down the window
tells the beggar about rampant short-changing
price-fixing and insider trading
how monopolies are gobbling
how today’s rising stock is tomorrow’s collapse
the beggar sniffs, scratches his matted hair
the driver tells him about pyramids and plots in the sea
over-invoicing round-tripping
tax havens tax schemes tax holidays
cartels and cabals
the beggar thrusts his one hand forward
“anything to hold me together, chief”
the driver tells the beggar no amount of glue
can fix the world
no amount of patching can cover the cracks
the beggar at the window waits for the driver
to feed him more than fear more than rage
more than fantastical accounts of disaster
the driver shakes his head turns away
rolls up the window
the beggar spits
the driver watches the spit roll down the window
into the street
the beggar stands in his puddle of spit
the light turns green
the driver drives on his way
and day revolves and Cain kills Abel
and then Abel kills Cain in the next life
CYBER LOYALTY
him: This life is a hard road. I want the best 4 u. may love give us courage
her 1: I tink its better if we both move on wit our lives pls
her 2: Hie truly it is, yes definitely our love and GOD wil give us courage. Thnx, sleep wel
her 3: If only love could pay the bills then ill be happy. Gudnite. Im out of airtime
her 4: I knwlifestufbts I swear nothngwil make me to fail to make u happy n be ur future wife.
I love u ne
CEMETERY OF DRIFTWOOD
Cove, south of the Storms River
Sucked out to sea by the rivers
then beached by the tides
these salted beams of white bone
creviced c o n
t o r
te d
wracked trunks and branches
fibrous mottled arms
crusted calcified beyond rot
left sprawled in an alcove
*
as you crest the hill you will see them
jammed together pale with seagull shit
the sculpted stumps
grave with elongated agony
THE BREAD OF THE DUTCH IS DEATH
Found poem
We will never eat the bread of the Dutch again
We will eat our bread buttered with blood
We will never eat the bread of the Dutch again
I, Tromp van Madagascar, Age 20
I, Cupido van Batavia, Age 30
I, Jeroen van de Malijste Cust, Age 24
I, Neptunis van Bima, Age 20
we, bondsmen of the former burgher councilor Nicholas Oortmans
I, Titus van de Caab, Age 22
I, Joumat van Ternaten, Age 40
I, Pasqual van Spaanse Wes Indies, Age 30
We, bondsmen of dispencier, Sieur Johannes Swellengrebel
I, Thomas van Bengalen, Age 30
I, Anthonij van Mallebaar, Age 40
we, slaves of the farmer Christoffel Esterhuijs
Have willingly, without torture or threat of bonds, of irons,
Or even the least threat of these,
Confessed and admitted
That the first prisoner, Tromp,
With Hanibal, alias knap een Deuntjie,
Who has been shot dead,
Did not scruple nor hesitate
To incite many slaves to flee
That we conferred with one another
And agreed never to return again to our masters
And to head for the land of the Portuguese
Never again will we eat the bread of the Dutch
Never again will we bow our heads
Never again will we smile for mercy
We, bondsmen, slaves held at the Cape, at the tip of Africa
We seized guns and flour and made our escape