14 this place called home eats my heart, madam world bank i feel its pain in every part of my damned soul the muck of it muddles my cracked brain the Rumi in me would like to dance to the delight in the blue notes in the Masikela horn “a person is a sometimes thing” please mister jazzman; tell me what do we call the thingification of an entire people this question is a cry of rage, ntate Matthews Goitsemodimo & i spy with our little eyes a people submerged by disasters squeezed by politics of expediency & the economics that places profit before people and the environment still crazy about raising the flag for the made in china proudly south african distinctly american culture comfortable to be wheels of the market forces: overalls trudging to unpaid overtime boots queuing to be the labor force hands delightfully swiping credit cards walking fashion accessories bouncing on the street gratified to count in the consumption patterns statistics there is a song in my heart sometimes a person can be a thing , Ntate Masikela the weight of the trombone’s requiem is drakensberg mountains & orange river in one atom on me the misery i have seen with my little eyes & the stories i heard with my naked ears weigh like the rock of Gibraltar on my mind this witness to injustice burden is too heavy for a mere tongue the lump is in my throat the things i’ve seen in this place if you are a mere robot in the system it boost your confidence to vomit your wastes at a thing that looks like you but slightly lower kk is a wheelbarrow a multipurpose cart; a knife, rubbish bin and many other things all in one from sunrise to sunset he is a donkey fetching water & firewood chopping wood carrying beer boxes and coal sacks sometimes it’s marijuana in the sacks police can’t suspect a mule like him he is their rubbish bin as well often he is a punching bag for my guys at the ntakunyisa wishing to remind all and sundry their your blood is still male even a hobo like me gets an ego-boost from sending kk to buy a morning newspaper rewarding him with a randella the story here is once in a while when the owner is too lonely needing some tender hugs cuddles with no stress attached & a warmth without strings & hassles kk the jacket is taken to a laundry converted into a teddy bear it’s good’s nice to have a vibrator you can talk to
Posted on: Tue, 02 Dec 2014 09:25:18 +0000
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