Poetry Train Africa: Ethiopia

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CHAPTER 13 Green Ink Use: An Oath, May Poetry Kill Us, Rhyme Travelers With Everywhere To Go... Kenya July 9th 2018

Andy awoke first in the 19th Century, Port Florence-Kisuma, Kenya at night time, and he let Redd and Boet sleep while Scratch and Jackie slept too. Scratch lifted his head a few times, and arched his back while asleep, and Jackie, she twitched a few times standing up. The night was long and good, because they spent time with Jado before he went back home, and his presence was a blessing. Andy looked around, and knew the blanks were going to be filled, furthermore he wanted them filled with wisdom puzzle pieces. Andy loved the effects of wisdom that wisdom caused, and the rewards were like more blessings in disguise. He was also prepared for the dream to deepen.

Andy opened his back pack, and seen his harmonica. He smiled looking at the rock overhangs on the other side of Lake Victoria. He got up, took a walk northwest, and it was slightly windy. Why northwest, Andy asked himself. He knew they must go east, but this instinct surfaced, should he alone go northwest, and meet them in Algeria? What was important was the six hundred-mile line of single-track Railway linking Lake Victoria and the headwaters of the Nile in Kenya, furthermore un-noticed historical accidents. Like this one, Andy seen Bats come out of a cave so he placed his harmonica to his lips, and played ‘Man With A Harmonica’ by Ennio Morricone. He walked into the cave. Andy was fearless as always. The echo of the musical instrument became phenomenon, awakening the location, pushing the Bats deeper into the cavern.

Scratch followed Andy into the cave. The cave had large and small corridors, best of all was the oddly smooth ground to walk on, but anyone who trudged sunk some if they stood. Andy was walking, and standing in and on Bat waste.

Redd and Boet were awakening, and they knew what trek they had to explore, Kisumu, Nakura, Nairobi, and Mombasa, where the trade markets flourished. Redd looked at the lake to see if Andy and Scratch went there to drink. The sound of the harmonica answered their curiosity. Boet looked at Redd, and spoke, “Is Andy calling all warlords? Why? To much attention.”

Redd laughed, and replied, We should worry about the heat and malaria. Let’s go to the cave. Andy be not sleep walking, we hope not anyway.

They looked around, the sunshine that peaked was revealing the Kenya vibrant beauty. A group of men came walking by, and many of them were injured, most of them had an arm in a sling. This group were the legendary hunting group of Lord Delamere. He and these hunters worked for farmers. Their Camels looked worn out also.

“We know of this cave, and we come here to rest.” Hugh Cholmondeley aka Lord Delamere said, “We have been tracking Lions for weeks, and the sun is up, so are they, but we need rest. These are my assistants Abdullah, Jama, and Pony Boy, and we are hunting killer Lions.” Lord Delamere looked at Andys’ Donkey and said, “This Donkey may be bait, but worse, the animal may bring the killer Lions to you both, so it is best to rid of the beast soon. We followed the spoor to here, so they maybe in the cave, cooling off.”

Boet and Redd looked at each other.

Lord Delamere looked to them as if he were one of many similar faces. He did not have an original face. He had a bald head, and seemed as though crows have sat above his cheeks far longer than weeks, because the crows’ feet have left their marks above his cheeks. It seemed his smile was slightly shammy. He dressed way more well off than his companions. They have been learning something about faces and the value from Boet. Lord Delamere may or may not realize he is being used for colonialism, so that key of deciphering was it.

Inside the cave became a scuffle, Scratch could be heard, and so was a Warthog. They all ran to the cave entrance. and Andy, laughing was walking out with Scratch, but with a look never seen before, and he said, “Scratch knows wild feline kung fu and stuff. No worries, we are okay.” Scratch licked the blood off of his paws.

Andy looked at the Lion hunting party, smiled and said, “It is hip to be a lunatic, and let the world know, we the Poetry Train crew now use green ink.”

Lord Delamere knew what that meant, defiance, meaning Andy took it upon himself to be a high official, a literary green ink official. Lord Delamere smiled, and asked. “Are you all coolies?”

Yes we are coolies, cool as a future fan. Redd replied, and Boet laughed.

Andy looked around, and said, “Listen to the Bird, a new song to me. Look there it is, wow, what beautiful colors. Stunning colors with the Birds’ song.”

“That is a Lilac breasted roller Bird.” Boet said.

“Cool.”

Lord Delamere looked at Scratch and said, “He is beautiful, and now he has shed some blood on Kenya land too.”

Andy looked at Redd and Boet and thought about things in the cave. Redd was even puzzled by Andys’ facial expression.

Lord Delamere looked at Redd deciphering, was Redd, hamitic, nilotic, nilo-hamitic, or bantu. “Are you spies, and here to abolish the slave trade?”

Redd replied, No, we are Rhyme Travelers looking for wisdom, and that is all.

Boet was looking at the pier and the decorated boats on Lake Victoria, seemed they were increasing in numbers.

“I need to get to the train station to send a telegraph to Mr. Welchberry.” Andy said. “To tell him we found comfort and safety.”

“What are you saying, you have to be joking? Comfort and safety!” Lord Delamere asked.

They all laughed, and Andy replied, “No, all be fine and dandy. My name is Andy, this is Redd, and this is Boet.” They all shook hands, very to the very old school way.

Scratch alerted all the Kikuyu tribe was near standing in the tall grass looking at them.

Goats bells could be heard.

Andy looked at them, and asked, “Maybe they are blood drinkers?”

Lord Delamere looked at Andy, “Maybe they are, no joke.”

Andy replied, “You are, your men are no different. Killing be on your eyes. They are beady and silver like, so no joke either pal.”

Boet spoke up, “They are fascinated by us, maybe I should show them a magic trick. Mbugi.”

Magic? Redd asked.

Boet laughed, and pulled out a deck of cards, and doused them with magic. Their favorite was the disappearing ink pen. “Andy is getting good at the face value game.”

“Witchy witchy, witchy witchy.” A tribal woman spoke laughing... The rest of the tribe performed a noisy dance for them.

“Whoo whee.” Andy shouted, “God Bless I love this.”

Everyone laughed. The tribe had smiles on their faces.

“I am going to send Jama with you to the train station because I have a messages to send myself, and that is to George Whitehouse, chief engineer of the Uganda Railway.” Lord Delamere said.

“Great, please tell him, I have green ink, please, thanks.” Andy laughed his ass off.

Redd replied, “Lord Delamere we are self taught since 1987.”

“Last I heard, the first batch of three hundred and fifty laborers arrived in Mombasa from India, and four thousand more are coming.” Lord Delamere said. “They maybe at the Voi Railway station by now.”

“They say, Voi river is a fresh water river.” Boet said.

“Jama, send this letter to Sikh Jemedar Ungan Singh and Colonel Patterson as well.” Lord Delamere added.

Jama bowed, and he and Andy walked to the train station in Port Florence.

Andy looked back, and said, “I shall return, need to send a message to the U.S.A. To Mr. Welchberry.”

At the Port Florence train station, Jamal informed Andy about the policeman that had two people sitting on the ground, because there were speaking in Swahili. A lady was yelling at those sitting, saying they stole her carpet bag, and they even tried to pick pocket her. Andy thought about when he was robbed by the homeless in Seattle and Nashville. He looked at the roof of the station as he always does, and was impressed by the roof over roof with a three inch gap, this created ventilation, impressive he thought, not done in the U.S.A. Andy noticed too, people gathering bolts and rivets from the tracks.

At the cave the Kikuyu tribesmen began to make darts, and others gathered some liquid of some sorts. This got Boet to contemplating as to why.

Back at the station the telegraph was in the need of repair from tribal damage, and the repair man was on his way, so Andy had to wait there. Jama decided to go back, and tell them about the disorders at the station, and return. Trains had to wait there too, this was to avoid collisions. Andy walked around, and read the public notices. A man walked up next to Andy, and read the notices too, and he was John Boyes aka Karianjahi. He was complaining about the postage stamp machine out of order. While reading the bulletin board John Boyes dropped some manuscripts, and Andy helped him pick them up. They introduced themselves to each other.

“You look American.” John Boyes said.

“I am.” Andy replied.

“I am in the food transporting business to British troops.” John Boyes said, “Around here Goats can buy you Mountians, and one must know witch craft is at large. I am friends with the Kikuyu and their chief, Karuri wa Gakurey, and the mighty Gĩkũyũ warrior, Wang’ombe. You are going to need protection here, and I am connected to all Railway gangs. Power means not a thing to me, but profit does. I am here for a small pox vacine shipment, and I hope it gets here fast because small pox is like bed bugs, imagine that.”

Andy looked at his skin and Johns,’ and at that moment locusts flew into the windows, and they both looked at each other. Both knew a locust storm must be coming. Andy sensed trouble from John, a trouble for sure if John did not like you.

“They think I am a bandit.” John Boyes said. A friend of Boyes, named John Hunter came into the station, and said, “We must go, the Kikuyu has informed me of Lion hunting parties near the caves at Lake Victoria.”

John Boyes looked out the doorway, and at Mt. Kenya, and said, “That is where God lives. Nice to meet you Andy, see you around.”

Andy felt something good and bad about Boyes. Andy did like bandits for sure, but they had to have a good genuine cause. The telegraph repair man came, and Andy watched him as he fixed the issues. He watched him double check everything.

“Can you play music with that?” Andy asked.

The man laughed, and did not say a word. Andy gave him the message, and it read, ’We see the U.S.A. has been over waved by political trickery, and the good thing be new Poet voices have stood up to that crap. Canada too is starting to show signs, and fight back also against corruption. Jimmy New Orleans is alive and well, and altering it all. We have a long way to go, and thank you from all of us, the blessings you have given us. Much respect and love. P.S. We still are not playing around, keeping our eyes on the prize.′

Back at the cave again Scratch needed to eat, so he went into stealth mode. Redd has been doing great for the transition of feeding for Scratch, from the night time to the day time, and this reason was for Redd to have some control, even little indeed, but it was some. Redd also knew Lord Delameres’ mind lips were licking, surely Lord Delamere wanted a kill, to kill Scratch for a trophy, to have a Canadian Mountain Lion on his kill list.

A storm from the east began to form south of where they were, cooling off the air, and winds began to sing. The tribe all chatted among themselves in a low tone, and the mighty Gĩkũyũ warrior, Wang’ombe, and their Kikuyu leader Karuri wa Gakurey came to the gathering. It was evident they were there to kill their curiosity, and the cat. They looked serious, tough, and a need to see things, they had curiosity all over their faces. Wang’ombe, and Karuri wa both had an amazing inquizitive, trustworthy look, and Karuri wa looked weighted down by his massive earrings, and the famine happening. Wang’ombe looked like a joyful warrior, meaning his eyes did smile. Wang’ombe sensed too, the crew was fearless and wise, as in, to ‘do not snap judge anyone.’

Boet did some pacing, and walking to get Redds’ attention to go into red alert. That meant more hunters were in the zone. Redd, Scratch, and Boet knew how to survive in snake pits, and with Wolves. The storm calmed down, and life went back to normal.

The tribe began to sing traditional songs.

John Boyes and John Hunter met with Boyes’ best friend, William Northrop McMillan, an American millionaire, all of them were tramps of their lives. Northrup was born in Missouri. Northrup was an only son, and inherited an enormous income from the family business, but he chose not to manage the corporation and became fascinated by exploration in Africa. The McMillans were a Scottish family who had built up a vast business manufacturing freight wagons for the American rail industry.

William Northrop McMillan got down off of his freight wagon, and shook their hands. Being six foot three, and three hundred pounds, and stylish in suit, tie and hat, he was for sure, a presence. A puzzling one too. He seemed only about business.

“How’ve you been William?” John Boyes asked.

“Great, and you?”

“Fine, so are you here to hunt killer Lions?”

“Yes, with Col. Ewart Grogan.” William Northrop McMillan replied.

While laughing John Boyes asked, “Did you ever domesticate Zebra yet?”

“Comedian are ye?” William Northrop McMillan replied, “My castle is near complete.”

“Did you add bunkers like you told me?”

“Yes Sir.”

“There is an American at the train station, so I need you to profile him for me?” John Boyes asked.

McMillan was staring, and thinking of the falls at Mount Kilimambogo and every white man settler wanted to own that Mountain, to own where, a place people say, where God lives. Even Scratch wanted to own the Mountain, because he stared at the area since he has been out of the cave, and done with his kill, the Warthog. Mount Kilimambogo was aka Big Rain, Buffalo Hill too, all three powerful names in Kenya.

William Northrop McMillan finally replied, “Stop on over at my place, the locals call it ‘Kilavu’ the great club house, for wine and swapping. Colonel Ewart Grogan will be there. You know us, and our wild parties.”

Back at the train station Andy along with others were dancing, and singing.

Back at the cave, Boet and Redd were worried about Andy too, and they knew they had a summit to reach, to reach together. Ol Donyo Sabuk, they all wanted to jump from the falls of Mount Kilimambogo.

The Train finally arrived at the station, and the vaccine was first to be unloaded. John Boyes and Mr. Hunter went back to get it, and get to the villages as soon as they could. William Northrop McMillan looked for this American, Andy Sandihands.

At the cave, things began to get heavy. Even Birds of all kinds began to be seen everywhere. The Cranes, Crows, Drongos, Eagles, Finches, Flamingos, Geese, Herons, Ibis, King Fishers, Lap Wings, Love Birds, Pelicans, Ravens, Robin Chats, Shrikes, Starlings, Stilts, Storks, Trogons, Wag Tails, and the Weavers all wanted to see Scratch, the Canadian Mountain Lion, and even the Bats, because they came back to the entrance of the cave.

This was a clear sign no murderous Lions were anywhere close, but what was close was something similar to the killer Lions, like this tribe and its friends, they became, and were blood brothers, and they were taunting Redd and Boet to become blood brothers, and they did not mind, but where was Andy? He needed to be here at this forced ceremony.

Redd and Boet sat facing one another with Scratch right by Redds side. Kīama, Ūthurania, Mūthuuri wa Mbūri ithatū, the tribe shouted. The world soul, the world soul, they shouted. Jackie the Donkey, was oddly calm.

Lord Delamere and his hunting party were surrounded by warriors, and who held them captive with poisoned spears and arrows, so any move to escape, would only lead to an escape to eternity.

Back at the Train Station, Andy had everyone in suspense playing his harmonica version of the song “In The Hall Of The Mountain King.” and Boyes, Hunter, McMillan and all there became mind blown. Andy sung as he looked at the Mountain.

Far away
In a land caught between
Time and space
Where the books of life lay
We fear
This castle of stone
The mountain king roams
All alone in here
But he’s not the only one
Lost inside
Forever hidden from the sun

Caravans of all kinds slowed down to check out the entertainment at the train station.

Boyes walked up to Andy, and asked if he’d work for him, and rupees would be no issue shall Andy perform to standards. “We need wagon men, many. William Northrop McMillan can supply them and the Horses, or Donkeys, as of now, Donkeys are in the breeding mode, because we lost many of them hunting down these mad Lions.”

John Hunter gathered their headsmen. “Askari, askari.” He shouted. Askari meant warriors. Warriors with rifles.

‘Mountain Kings, Mountain Kings.’ Andy said to himself.

“Take this Andy to Railhead.” Boyes demanded. He wanted Andy as a prisoner.

Out of nowhere came the Wakamba tribe aka the Kamba tribe, who never did like doing business with Boyes and company. The Wakamba tribe were protecting Andy or were they wanting him for other reasons?

“These people are highwaymen, raiders.” Boyes said.

“Wait, I know these men.” William Northrop McMillan proclaimed. “I buy their honey.”

“Looky here, in this day in age you all use the word shoddy, and shoddy you be.” Andy said. “So what body do you represent? Me, I am a lot e for Poetry, wisdom, and life, anything other than that, be not for me. Rot, you all do not know what rotty means do you, aka fleeting, but I am sure you all know what a totty be!”

Boyes loved something about Andy, Andy was gypsy like too, like him.

Col. Ewart Grogan came riding on his horse, and smiled more and more as he got closer. He realized it was Andy. The Col. laughed, and said, “Andy at least this time, I do not smell like crap, and been crawling around in it all night and day.”

Andy laughed, and asked, “So how be Gertrude?”

Col. Ewart looked the same to Andy, adventurous, strong, wise, and still his eyes shown trust.

“Great, did you all ever figure out what killed that Impala?” Grogan asked.

“Chimpanzees.”

Ed Ohis, the Railway post master came, and asked everyone to leave. He had happiness all over his face, and Andy sensed it too, and smiled.

“Sure, thing.” Andy replied, “By the way, they all complained about the postage machine being broken down.” Andy looked at everyone. He laughed, and said, “A nostalgic pang, a nostalgic ping, a nostalgic thang, a nostalgic train thing.”

A train was coming, and porters were busy running up and down the platform. The sound of the steam engine pulling, and belching out clouds of smoke gave Andy a wonderful feeling, so he walked faster back to the cave to Redd and Boet.

Boyes, and company stared at Andy as he walked away.

“He is not alone, he has two companions with him.” Col. Ewart Grogan said.

Outside the station everyone asked the postmaster to create a cultural center. Many loved the idea, and became highly critical towards politics.

Andy laughed, and said, “They tried to take me hostage, odd.” Poetry came to mind as he walked,

I am like a bat, yes a bat, I protect books

Pest control, similar to ignorance on hold

Book eating bugs, Non reading Human slugs

Brats, war rats, crazy cats, and I am like a Bat

I have a Bat friend that used to be a bomb

And maybe still be, all is okay though, stay calm

So enter Poetry at your own risk

As for me I do my own whisk

Andy laughed, and got back to the crew. He got there un-noticed by Redd and Boet, and Cheif Karuri wa Gakure was telling them, he could teach them how to tame Animals with his magic.

Andy spoke up, “I want to learn that too, and pecked engraving, rock art.”

“We must go to Mfangano Island.” Cheif Karuri wa Gakure replied.

“What’s the hold up, let’s go there, let’s go with it.” Andy replied, and Redd laughed his ass off.

“The Itone and the Suba, Suba, the Abasuba.” Cheif Karuri wa Gakure replied smiling. “You three come with me.”

The tribe, and Boet as always were being alert, and they pointed out to all, The troops of Admiral Sir Harry Rawson was moving into the direction of the West African Kingdom of Benin, Nigeria. This changed Cheif Karuri wa Gakures’ mind, and gave the Poetry Train crew permission to go their way. The crew knew this was an ugly situation. Andy also knew too they had to go to the next train station through the bush, secretly from Boyes, and his hunting party.

Andy started to whistle some joyful melody like there was nothing wrong at all. “Go with what I am doing for us to get on.” Andy said, they all agreed, and Andy untied Jackie, and the way they went south east. Andy with his supersonic hearing heard the sput of a train, Train No. 3020, It was in the bush hiding.

Classic, old is gold. Redd stated as he seen the train.

“Nakuru, here we come.” Boet said. “Cash is King.” They paid their way on the train with Scratch and Jackie in a cargo car. Nomad style. Boet looked out at the land, and said, “These times around are close to the days when Rainer Maria Rilke wrote ‘Letters To A Young Poet,’ very close to the times.”

Redd and Andy looked at each, and around them so no one heard that. Andy looked at Redd, and said, “He be in the groove.”

“You both have, and now we are doing somewhat something similar.” Boet added, and everyone smiled.

Nakuru is an instant city, the instance the Railway was complete. As they rolled on by with their legs kicked out, and swinging, they passed by Lake Nakuru, a place home to the Flamingos, whom seem to be having fun, doing Flamingo business. The sun began to be intense, and this cargo car had no protection from the light, so five hundred plus miles of this sort of travel was on their fate plate. The Train kept on rolling, rolling to Kikuyu, and to Nairobi aka The Stream of Cold Water.

Boet laughed, and said, “I too understand when Ngugi wa Thiong’o wrote in his memoir, “Dreams in a time of war” he recalls the Railway line, a journey by train being the only thing that almost challenged his commitment to school.”

Men were along the Railway clearing bush.

“What’s wrong Andy?” Boet asked.

“Nothing, just thinking of us have nots, riding in the lower level of have nots, and thinking about the restaurant car.”Andy replied with a laugh. He also told them what happened at the Port Florence train station.

The surrounding forest was thick, and you could sense the tribes hiding, nothing and no one were out in the open, but Animal migrations. They came upon Fort Smith, tents were everywhere. Soldiers were planting a tree with tribesmen, and it looked like a peaceful day going on for them. Indian camps were everywhere too and they all were barefoot. Elephants appeared everywhere slowing down the train. Andy and Redd thought about how the Elephants listen, with their feet, and thought about the Turtles too.

Andy got to thinking about John Boyes, and asked himself, was he wanting me to build the Railway, because it would have been cheaper? Or was he wanting a white porter?

Many people from Thika wanted to leave Nairobi and get back home at the Nairobi station. Andy told them this route north went to where William Northrop McMillan lives. This train station too was filled with British hard hats smoking cigs, and pipes. The train needed water, and the one hour lay over began in Nairobi. Redd looked around, and said, The natives are paying for all of this, and most I am sure, they do not have a clue they are, and will.

“Paying the piper but others call the tune.” Boet added.

“I am sensing military activity of some kind.” Andy added as he scanned the people. He seen, along with Boet and Redd, women dancing, and men building fires. Shepherds and flock. Baboons, beetles, and Lions, yes, Lions.

Redd whipped out his binoculars to get a closer look. Andy looked at the clock on the station roof, and it was 10:17 a.m. Boet was calm, and whistling. Redd looked at Andy and at Scratch, and he seemed to be calm too.

“Look, like them Lions, I am hungry, let’s go to the restaurant car.” Andy said.

Look! Redd stated, and pointed at Dr. Rozendo Ribiero who was riding a Zebra.

“It is the blood, Zebra blood.” Boet added.

At the buffet wagon, steward David Kikwau spoke, “All we are serving at this time is pale ale.”

“Great, three please, and we will drink outside until the train moves along.” Andy replied. Dr. Rozendo Ribiero fascinated Andy, maybe because it was Helliette and th’Zabracazebra, Andy noted a question to ask WordSlinger, did John E know about Dr. Rozendo Ribiero before he wrote Helliette and th’Zebracazebra?

David Kikwau oozed confidence with looks and an unbridled spirit. He has served every lunatic in Kenya for sure. Did he know he was changing travel and time for years upon years, maybe he did?

“The Lions around here will eliminate any threat to its pride.” David Kikwau said while looking at Scratch. “May luck lead them to Buffalo hill, and not to here, where there too is plenty of chow, human chow. Is your Cat a solitary Cat?”

Yes. Redd replied. A purring one for sure, and with a unique roar, furthermore climbing skills perfecto.

“Has he ever attacked anyone?”

“No.” Redd replied, “He is beautiful and wild, but loves humans. All one has to be and do, be fearless, and move slow.”

“Speed.” Andy added. “Maybe, seems to me, that Doctor on the Zebra would be a Lions target.”

“Indeed.” Boet replied.

Redd chained Scratch to his arm, and wrist.

Royal Railway Engineers Captian Lutley B. Sclater and George Wilson came over to the buffet car, and ordered. Everyone watched a lone Zebra cross the Railroad tracks. The surviving Indian workforce too came, and ate before we all went east to Mombasa. They all talked about the Iron Snake aka Sclater Road, and Henry Labouchere. Jokes were spoken about George Whitehouse because he was waiting on his shipment of coffee and tea, and everyone made sure he got them slow as possible.

The Legendary Chief Laibon of the Masai people, the Morans who fought back against the British who started the Kedong massacre, a raid, and rape event walked into the train station. He was going to Fort Smith with officer Mr T.T.Gilkison, and a force of police.

The ways of justice, Boet, Redd and Andy thought. Boet told them about tribal wealth of the cattle people, women, children, and Cows. Maasai children sold goats near the tracks. Boet whispered to Andy and Redd, “Chief Laibon may be heaven sent, to me, I behold his magic, it is all over him.”

The Nandi people were there too. They were witnessing what Nandi Orkoiyot prophesied. Andy nudged Redd to look at a pair of them. They were stealing telegraph wire, and Railroad bolts.

“Those are for fancy spear heads, bracelets and earrings.” Boet said, and laughed.

Dr. Rozendo Ribiero rode by on his Zebra stating, “Small pox, and the African Sleeping Sickness is at large everywhere in Kenya, furthermore psycho Lions!”

This added them into a warp of fear, even time travelers risk getting sick in the times of the times they are on or in. They are also deep in happiness and wonder in beauty because the train ride from Port Florence has been possibly the best scenic extravaganza the senses have sensed yet on this Continent.

Settlers Messrs Henry Edward Watt and Hugh Stewart Smith came to the station to get their mail. They were establishing farms. Andy looked at Redd, and they seen Kipkelion, Sacred Lumbwa. A farming Railroad ghost town, and many of the ghosts were here alive. Alive in blessed farmlands.

“Farmers are like Poets.” Andy stated. “What are the pests to Poets and their Poetry? I spray originality. My Poems are like oranges, as in the only basic color word for which no other word exists. Hard to find mutual bywords, word.” Andy laughed, “I care and prune, and mist out some doom. I can be a living mausoleum. I own no land but I prowl. I am like the Hyena you all fear, so bow. I make women flick and flock ox-hide, a percussion sound to ride. Call me Chejpor, the Poet totem Poem for. No one can be him, forward, on word love chore.”

Everyone laughed. The Nandi began to sing, and dance. Andy got on his hands and knees, and pointed to the ants, and Shouted, “They too dance, they too dance.”

Everyone laughed again.

Florence Preston, the wife of chief engineer Ronald Preston, Also the town train station is named after her, Port Florence, now named Kisumu. She applauded Andy, and spoke to them, “It is hot and hot and dusty in Mombasa also. The rainy season was short, and caused drought in many parts of the country.”

Scores of Black Crows lined up on the telegraph wire, and they caw’d and caw’d.

“The journey was many hours, six hours longer than scheduled, but no one rides the Lunatic Express believing it will be on time; you’d be mad to think any way close to that.” Florence Preston said, and Ronald laughed.

“Fort Jesus, may Poetry Kill Us!” Andy said. “That Be it, we are going to Fort Jesus, Mombasa.”

The train arrived to Tsavo.

“Everyone in the world are still alert and cautious.” Florence Preston said, “Being eaten by a Lion does have its time of thought.”

Everyone looked at each other, and smiled.

The Poetry Train crew stopped to listen to a woman sing a praise song.

People for years in years will be writing Lion Poems beyond. Redd declared.

“Indeed.”

Redd looked at them, smiled, and said, To Tsavo.

“To Tsavo.” Andy and Boet replied.

Scratch was the issue. Wild killer Lions recently destroyed lives here, and still may, and now, a Canadian Mountian Lion on a Kenya train. The Lions were Devils to everyone here.

Boet looked at them, and spoke, “Maybe, always easier to know what happened in the past in the future, because after all, they do not know as much as we do.”

Lieutenant Colonel John Patterson and the Railway both have reasons to downplay. Redd said.

“Shh.” Andy requested. “Investors are uneasy. As in the train may breakdown. We may get stranded, and frightened.”

Redd laughed, and said, I was going to tell you a second ago, be careful what you wish for, so know I do. Becareful what you wish for!

“The Lions were supernatural in origin.” Boet stated with a serious look. “I do have to admit, the Railway Car Trap makes me say, brilliant.”

“Some Poets here are trying to connect with us.” Andy said randomly.

People boarded the train, and the fellas, Scratch and Jackie boarded a cargo car.

The Rift Valley, the vast cradle of mankind with wild creatures, does elevate ones life, and along with the amazing sight of the train crossing a temporary viaduct during the old line’s construction. The tracks cross a Savannah populated beauty and wonder, but the sound of the train became eerie, instead of clickety-clack, the train sounded like, Slaughter, Slaughter!

They were excited to see, and roll over the famous Tsavo bridge.

The eerie clickety-clack, Slaughter, Slaughter sounds got louder and louder.

Caravan systems, caravan porters. Ghosts, Waungwana ghosts of captured slaves walked the Kenya land. Mombasa was the safest route. Slaves did want to learn languages, as many as they could. It was exciting to them, exciting times. Slaves were like a winding staircase of liberation. Washed by the rains of the Indian ocean. The sunshine must have screamed brutalization to these people. Any spot was a good place to get killed. The British Royal Navy could not get to everyone.

At the back of the cargo car Boet found a chest of many brown bags and they were filled with glass beads. Kenya currency, and a lot of it. Adornment, magic, either or. Stings of beads, twisted together, with brass coils, knotted details. White hearts – red beads with an inside white layer. There were bags of snake vertebrae, a talisman against snakebites. Bartering bags for ivory, gold and slaves, and who did they belong to?

Bags of bone beads too, plenty of them. Camel and Cow bones. Bags of Cowrie and Conus shells.

“Look at this, Baule beads, and terracotta.” Boet said.

“The Bead Man of Kenya.” Andy said. “He maybe a ghost like all these ones we see?”

Is that an Ostrich egg? Redd asked.

“Yes Sir.” Boet replied. “For necklaces, I am sure of.”

This has to be stolen from Royal family members, courtiers and those of nobility. Redd said.

“Could be a bead merchant.” Andy suggested.

The train was close to Tsavo, and they knew they had to report these bags to the train master.

“This be a cargo car similar to the ones they tried to trap Lions with.” Andy said.

Thorn thickets were everywhere as they got close.

We maybe headed into an ambush. Redd stated.

“Maybe we should jump off the train, and take these beads.” Boet suggested.

“The cave me and Scratch were in had many human remains in it.” Andy said. “There are demon people, so why not demon Lions?”

Boet maybe, this is the Lunatic line, from nowhere to nowhere. Redd said, Now you tell us.

Redd recalled the new facial expression Andy had, and now he knew why.

Andy smiled, and said, “Witch craft.”

They all looked at Scratch, Jackie, the beads, and the wilderness.

It is the 19th Century and whom ever finds this chest and bags will take them for themselves, so we may as well take them for ourselves. Redd stated. Maybe.

“Maybe, but we should leave it be.” Andy replied. “This crap would follow, and haunt us.”

“Yes, we should leave these, plus Jackie is loaded down with books, and food.” Boet added.

Okay, and we must stay here in the cargo car too while in Tsavo. Redd replied. We must have past up the Konzo station.

“Okay, and let’s hope we do not meet Lt. Col. John Henry Patterson.” Andy said.

“I think we should.” Boet replied.

“No.” Andy replied and, shut the cargo car door, and it got dark in there. The train slowed down too, so they were close to Tsavo.

Ogilvy, the train engineer stopped the train short of the normal stop. A train master could be heard talking, and walking. Here in Tsavo, reason could be lost through terror. Lt. Col. John Henry Patterson made his way east for a safari on a train prior to the arrival of this train.

“Maybe we should have filed our teeth to points as the Wakamba do.” Andy said, and laughed. “Be ready.”

Redd laughed, and replied, We gave them our oath, and with winks of the eyes too, so cool.

A voice outside the cargo car said, “I smell a punda,” meaning Donkey. Whoever it was, the person was arguing about who was going to unload the cargo cars. A fine time for train station porters, and understandable. Ogilvy spoke, “This car belongs to me, just Pundas in this one.”

The Poetry Train crew were relieved. A short moment went by, and the cargo door opened, and a Hindu man was standing there looking at them, and then at the chest.

“I am Ram, that is my chest, and all in it belongs to me.” Ram said, “I am going to Mambasa.”

“Well get in here, and close the door.” Andy replied.

Redd laughed, and said, Ram, Scratch is a Canadian Mountain Lion, and will not harm you, so hurry get in, close the door.

Cautiously Ram does.

“Are you a bead merchant?” Andy asked.

“Yes, most times, but working the Railway too.” Ram replied.

This ride became cozy to Voi, Kenya, and they talked, talked about a non-slave trade. Ram was intellectual so it was not like they were talking to walking straw or sorts similar.

“Trade this, trade that, even me gets triggered emotionally about Animals.” Andy stated. “Food, fur, and leather. All of this crap makes me sick, y’all. Slave liberation, Animal liberation, and Poet liberation. DAMN, lock up these killers, human killers, or hunt them down as they have done to others. Abuse, whatever, I am sick of these types of humans, period, end of story. Sectors of evil be way out of control.” Andy added, “Again, I am sick of the perverse ways. I have news for those who love to have people below them, forced or not, there are entities above your nasty evil asses too, bet that, just die and see, chicken shit racist no minds or souls, kill your weak ass self, please already. Sick of these types of humans, period, end of story.”

Emotional impulses, without reflecting on the ethics of what they are doing. Redd added.

“We can easily become targets of shooting parties.” Ram said.

Everyone looked at each other.

“Calm dow-” Boet started to say down, but Redd intervened by hand, no, and Redd said, Not a good thing to do or say to Andy on this topic.

Moments went by listening to the clickety Slaughter Slaughter of the Railways tracks, Andy said, “I know, thou shall not kill, but I am pissed off. Blows my mind in how evil humans can be, and validate it with their religion, amazing evil trickery.”

“We are Angels, Andy, compared to many others.” Boet said as he pat Andy on his shoulder.

“The pains, growing pains of immortality.” Andy replied. “Thanks Boet.”

Redd looked at Scratch, and asked, Scratch what is going on in the minds of these killer Lions?

“Keep the Poet Ark rolling, right Scratch, because we are on a Poet rescue mission.” Andy replied. “No one counts more than anyone else, but slash although not to many people read, and write Poetry. So go to hell, man-made hell, or the sweet divine hell with your numbers. Ya ya I am a Poet of the street and home made academia, me, no part of that slackademic catastrophe, and I for sure on purpose do not fit so neat to that ugly mindeat beat, for sure... Open the cargo door please Ram, screw all evil people. Fear not! May Poetry Kill Us! I say future astronauts will save Poetry too as we are. Hunt me for fun. Show me your power you so much need for.”

Ram opened the door, and every car and wagon connected on this train was targeted with arrows. Arrows with poison. Many zipping by them, and sticking in the wooden walls.

Be careful what you wish for, so Close!! Redd said.

“The!” Boet said.

“Cargo door!” Andy finished the order.

The venom on these invisible arrows are the root of chewed Sansevieria, a strong toxin, mixed with the liquid of larvae and seed powder. This tribe with the belief the spirits are with them do not like time, or any one in a hurry, and for sure this black iron snake. Catching anyone off guard leads to death.

Ram looked at his chest of beads. He looked serious, like he was afraid for himself, his status, and fear of thievery. The train picked up speed, and moved onto Voi. There they would change train engines, also there was the junction for the route that went further down to the Kilimanjaro aka the Tanganyika. The Voi river kept the train with fresh water. Voi had a hospital too, for the poisoned.

At the Voi train station the trains were not alone needing water, Elephants there needed some too. The place looked like Arizona to Andy and Redd. The Railway had help wanted signs, and a rupee exchange for beads, clothe and wire. Everyone looked at Ram, and he smiled.

“Now I can buy my own trolley, and work it in Mombasa.” Ram said happily. “Or maybe work more, construction is under-way at the Railhead of what has become Kilindini Harbour.”

“This car is loaded with fodder, and this one with Donkeys, and my men I have hired from Port Florence.” Ogilvy said to a police officer as they walked by the cargo car the Poetry Train crew were in. “I am going to Mombasa with them, and I am not sure who’s taking this engine back west.” Ogilvy winks at them as he, and the officer walked back to the train engine. The police man hoped on his two seated trolley interceptor, and went about his business making sure the wounded got to the hospital in Voi, Taita-Taveta County, Kenya.

The crew walked to the Voi river bridge for bathing, and drink. They knew Scratch and yes, believe it, Jackie would be safe in the cargo car, even alone by themselves. The Coutinho Brothers who were photographers of Zanzibar were there taking photos of the bridge, trains, and the Railway here. They had studios in Zanzibar and one in Dar es Salaam. They were talking about George Whitehouse in Mambasa. He had built Railways across the world, but they thought that if he had known what laid ahead he might have climbed back aboard the SS Ethiopia, and returned swiftly to Blighty.

Andy looked at the brothers and said, “Sir Charles Eliot, Slave protector.” Andy laughed, “A British Kid Rock naval officer freaking grand stuff.” Andy laughed, and recited a Poem by Sir Henry Taylor, ‘Heroism in the Shade.’ Written, addressing Sir Charles Eliot in thought.

What makes a hero? An heroic mind

Expressed in action, in endurance proved:

And if there be pre-eminence of right,

Derived through pain well suffer’d, to the height

Of rank heroic, ’tis to bear unmoved,

Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind,

Not the brute fury of barbarians blind,

But worse,—ingratitude and poisonous darts

Launched by the country he had served and loved.

They all looked at each, and thought deeply. As they went back to the train.

Boet added in too, “I can not believe Robert Gascoyne-Cecil said, “If our ancestors had cared for the rights of other people, the British empire would not have been made. Crazy if you ask me.”

Indeed.

Scratch paced to, and fro inside the cargo car, and Jackie mostly slept.

Ram had a tear in his eyes moving, and finally so was the train, moving to Manyani.

Ram spoke, “I have some English language wisdom, and I know a British investor. My real name is Alibhai Mulla Jeevanjee, My grandfather is named Ram, Makhan Ram Vadvae, and he is a Railroad track checker. He rides a trolley all day, and checks the tracks. My father started a tea stall at the station. His name is Jagan Nath Nagpal aka Ram.”

“Why are you crying?” Boet asked. They all could see now, Alibhai Mulla Jeevanjees’ soul, and it shined love and prosperity. He knew what mental freedom could be, and do.

“I have a mixed baby coming, because I am married to a Kenya woman, and I am afraid for our lives.” Alibhai Mulla Jeevanjee replied. “I will be fine, God has blessed me with business sense. I may even start a newspaper. Jenabai is my wifes’ name.”

“Beautiful!” Everyone replied. Andy looked at his eyes, they were small, but they held soul, love and ideas. If only Alikbhai knew, his future of brilliance was set in stone, and maybe he did know, the sickness of racism would not end in his lifetime, that was true. A lot of things did not come, come to any of our lifetimes, and the train rolled on closer to Mambasa. Andy looked at Redd and Boet with that yes it is that time, the time to silently say good bye, many people through all of these journeys, they had to silently say good bye, and now Boet was getting the call of good bye duty too, and it hits hard, hard to the heart.

Andy thought deeply about the worlds skin deep issues.

Ogilvy told them about the Lunatic line, “The line is 582 miles long, and began on 5 August 1896 on the Mombasa mainland and it reached Port Florence on Lake Victoria on 19 December 1901. The capital cost was 5,502,592. The cost in lives was 2,493 Asians and 5 Whites. 31,983 coolies were imported from India. Of these 6,454 were invalidated back to India and 16,312 were repatriated or dismissed. 6,724 Indians remained in East Africa to become the main progenitors of the present Asian population. 43 stations were built and 22 construction locomotives were worn out. The bridging included the Salisbury Bridge joining the island of Mombasa to the mainland of 21 spans of 60-foot girders, 35 viaducts of the Kikuyu and the Mau Escarpments; and 1,280 smaller bridges and culverts.”

Andy, Boet and Redd loved this, and the Animals did too, they opened their eyes from rest here and there but they too did smile. Ogilvy spoke again, “Cost per mile: 9,454 was the number of men killed per mile: 4.30 men (Asians and Whites), Number of men imported per mile: 55 men, Number of men invalidated per mile: 11 men, Number of Indians per mile settled in East Africa: 11.5 men.”

Mind boggling. Redd stated.

Ogilvy said, “There are many Doctors in Kenya too now, so this is good. What is not good is they connected a Cattle wagon in front of ours so the stench will be on us.”

The crew looked towards the steam shed, the setting sun illuminated towering clouds in the darkening northwest sky. They all looked at Andy next, and he smiled. They seen children crossing a river, and Ogilvy said, “That is their route to school.”

Station Changamwe came next before many palm trees and Mombasa.

The train stopped at Changamwe and Ogilvys’ friend Railroader Peer Sayyed Ali Shah came onto the cargo car too, to go to the Mambasa Port. He was regarded as a man of God by his co-workers. He also has his Railway survey and welfare friend, Inder Singh Kent.

Peer Sayyed Ali Shah spoke about, Kenya was the place, with rich minerals and agricultural land, furthermore trade routes. Andy looked at them, because they had their India towels on their heads, and asked them if they had long hair?

Everyone laughed, and they shown Andy they did have long hair. Andy also kept his eye on them in case they were machinating, plotting to steal the chest from Ram aka Alibhai Mulla Jeevanjee.

“Fort Jesus, I knew you all had long hair.” Andy said, and laughed.

They all three tossed, and turned in their beds. The scent of the sea was slowly awakening them.

Ogilvy looked at everyone and said, “Fareh the Chareh, meaning, a person who roams to greener pastures. These men are the real deal. They too, Bas Chalo Africa, stopped, left everything, and came to Africa. They are like us.” Peer Sayyed Ali Shah and Inder Singh Kent smiled.

“I do not like Ernest Hemingway and US President Theodore Roosevelt.” Ogilvy proclaimed, “To much power.”

Redd looked at Andy knowing they were not acclimatized to the varied weather conditions and the food, furthermore Danger, Doom and Dreads sister was ahead and near. The Railway men talked about the road to Butere as the train got closer to the Mombasa station.

Andy looked out the window, browsing the future of here, Kenya, and seen the service grow to be pathetic. While seeing, they all heard Peer say to them about his heart and life, “Marry a woman who can cook or a man who can provide food. Don’t marry for love or beauty, because love dies, beauty fades but hunger stays.”

‘Great Andy thought, Love be to good to be true, thanks universe, thanks. I feel my taste buds tasting you universe, I may eat you up, so no more grief spawn’d upon all, although I bet you’d sickly like that, wouldn’t you?, ha’ Andy knew love was alive, but forming into a rarity. He seen future looting everywhere up and down the Railway. Station bustling would be no more. Stations become dens of wild Bats and Rats. Rust, Andy thought, Rust was about to choke the times. Rust, Ashes to Ashes and Dust to Dust, shall we say not for badd ass Poets the World will rust, Rust! Same ol crap Century on Century. Glee, diminishing glee.’

The Poetry Train crew knew night was near, and so was Danger. They wondered about Scratch. His diet has changed over the years. Lamas are nowhere around. They like Scratch, knew they mostly focus on their health and stealth.

The trains whistle was heard, and Mombasa was close.

Redd laughed, and said, Look at Andys’ face. His is like yes, train rides and romance knows the heart has its ways, and the days of the future seem to be not courageous, or sincere.

Andy laughed, “Constraints my ass. Nothing I do be for laughs really, ya ya. Happy Happy principles. Happy Happy scruples. Me, and you all are fiery material, period, ya hear, period.”

Everyone laughed.

Sup Andy? Redd asked.

“Oh thinking of the coming up out of service days, me of course.” Andy replied.

The Mombasa clock could be seen as the train stopped.

Andy stood up, fastened packs on Jackie, looked at everyone, and laughed his ass off.

At last, they made it to the Port of Mombasa. Kilindini Harbour. As they got out of the cargo car. They looked at all the sea vessels. Tents and Traders were everywhere. Ogilvys’ Railway friends dashed away without saying good bye, understood though, the value of that chest maybe more than anyone knew.

Redd slightly awoke, the morning breakfast of morrow was the cause, king hunger.

Andy spoke some freestyle as he tightened Jackies straps.

As in gossip, scorn and black black iron metal paint

True Poets know what’s up, on who be and who the hell aint

Bunches of hunches leaves the Devil many soulful lunches.

Criminal subhuman criminals have become slick and sly

They look like police dicks and the mighty politician lie

When you jump off the train please land in the grass

Because the gravel folks crunches your fake or real ass...

The markets here were as they been told, roaring like all Lions, killer or not. People were talking about the telegraph news, that locusts were near Lake Victoria.

“Gentlemen, it was great to meet you, telegraph me if needed.” Ogilvy said, as he shook their hands. As soon as Ogilvy left them, the Kenya police surrounded the crew. Andy started to be sarcastic but sealed his lips. They wanted to make sure they were safe, and had a scout.

No, we need no scout, thanks, we have Boet. Redd told them, We are not here on a Poetry Safari, only schooling, Poetry, as it says in our paperwork, why we are here and etc &c...

They were near a cotton port where many stern wheel paddle steamers eased by. Taarab singers were everywhere. Taarab music, akin to sung Poetry, creative subtlety known as Lugha ya majazi, aka imagery language.

Andy kicked back on a post, and listened to Siti binti Saad, the mother of taarab music. She seemed to be selling pottery too. Her band began to jam, and to the crew, the music sounded slightly like Appalachian music. She spoke a lot to the crew. They could tell she knew so much without being schooled. Her eyes were original and magnificent. She was open but very concealed. She was a Poet warrior from Tanazania but in Kenya, and her lyrics and Poems sprang, the abuse of women by men and the shortcomings of the legal system, furthermore, corruption, denouncing class oppression, and social criticism.

Andy looked at the crew, and said, “Corruption needs stomped out, not protested, ha.”

Word!

Boet was smiling, nudging them to notice her music following on the coast, and clapping to her rika skills. They were witnessing a human live Africa treasure.

Andy looked to where all the police went too.

People shouted Kijiti, Kijiti, Kijiti and Poet singer Siti binti Saad sung her song ‘Kijiti’ for them, and it was beyond beautiful. Everyone swayed.

“Freeaakiing Wicked!” Andy said. “Love it. SWAY, SwAY!” Andy looked all the boats on the ocean, “Yes.”

Siti binti Saad looked at Andy and, smiled.

“Your music will be in my head forever!” Andy shouted, and Boet and Redd laughed, but not Siti binti Saad, she sung her next number all around Andy looking into his eyes.

Her musical performance group jammed the oud, a nai (flute), daf (tambourine), dumbak (drum), two small dumbak known as kidumbak, kamanja (single-string relative of the violin), qanun (zither), sanduku (a single-string bass), violin, pair of cherewa (coconut-shell maracas), and a pair of mkwasa (sticks beaten together or on a table).

The audience tipped them well, and shouted, “Muusiko!”

Redd looked at Boet while petting Scratch, and raised his eyebrows.

Andy joined in all the hand clapping, and dance, although keeping his eyes on the police, and the sail boats and sailors.

Boet got bags, and bought fruit and veggies from Siti binti Saads’ people.

After the song Siti binti Saad petted Scratch, she looked up at Redd, and said. “You three are welcome to come to my house, and all six of them went through the back of her tent.”

“I like you three, been told about you.” Binti said, “Love that you all keep your colors. In Swahili there is a saying, Die like a guinea fowl without losing colours, Kafa na urembowe kama kanga. Do you have rivals? Because I do.”

The crew looked at each other, and stopped. In sync they all three spoke, “Binti you are the brave one!”

Andy noticed Redd and her look alike, sign of a possibility Andy thought. He picked up on something, was she harboring runaway slaves?

“I am going to take you to meet the Poet, Muyaka wa Mwinyi Haji.” Binti replied. “He hates the distinctions between wealth and poverty.”

Everyone looked at one another.

“Muyaka’s a disguised encyclopedia of Mombasa.” Binti said. “He is big on Moyo, Nia, and Roho. Do you know about them?”

They all looked a bit lost, and Binti laughed.

“He will like you, your spirits speak, speak effort, working diligently to fruitation.” Binti said, “He will teach you to protect your Moyo, your heart against Danger.”

They all look at each other.

Binti smiled, and said, “Keep your heart well. Do not let your hearts crave ivory or things similar. I like the way Nia works, the mind.” Smiled again, and spoke, “Your pure Rohos, souls will live on, and on.”

They all looked at her, and thought, Does she know her soul shall for sure through time?

Once there Poets Muhammad Kijuma and Muyaka wa Mwinyi Haji were sitting on mats on the ground conversing about copying, and interpreting Swahili Poetry. They also were talking about Poet, The Legend of Liyongo, Fumo Liyongo. They got up, and met the Poetry Train crew, and they asked if Jackie the Donkey was going to be in the race, and Andy did not have a clue what to say, and then it hit him, “Yes, we are undefeated.”

They laughed at Andy.

“I see you are not here to sell us bicycles, and that is good, because no one wants them here, but inland yes, on the Lamu island no.” Muhammad Kijuma said.

Redd noticed Syrian paper work, and Muhammad Kijumas’ calligraphy skills in Arabic.

“The Tana River is the biggest River in Kenya, the mountains up country and streams trough dry savannah bush land to Kipini at the Indian Ocean. A lot of its water maybe used to generate electric power people of the world are talking about.” Muyaka wa Mwinyi Haji said looking at the crew.

Andy laughed, and said, “Canoe trip, trip a canoe. Canoe brew, river ripples too, paddle paddle, I love the Poetry saddle.”

“Oh these quatrains quatrains beaches be strange, but maintain innocence and romance in times of agony and protest is a Poets gain!” Muyaka wa Mwinyi Haji said.

Everyone laughed.

“Is there an evening dance Binti?” Andy asked.

“No.”

“They love my war Poetry, and me, I build mind bridges with my Poetry.” Muyaka wa Mwinyi Haji said. He and Andy seemed to bond, and they walked off together talking, and Muyaka recited his Poem, ‘Of Disillusionment.’ As they talked they walked to the harbor then the beach.

Andy looked at him and thought, we can drown in the air we breathe too. Andy sensed these Poets were preparing us for new rivals as the Poetry Train moved forward, and onward.

“Lions of the Sea.” Muyaka wa Mwinyi Haji said.

Andy thought of Danger. He looked at Muyaka wa Mwinyi Haji and said, “We are Patriots to Poetry, and show no treachery.”

Muyaka wa Mwinyi Haji laughed, and said, “I am the skipper of my Poem, and the Poem is the voyage, similar to you and your friends’ Poetry Train.

Sailing vessels known as dhows and jahazi were everywhere on the ocean. Muyaka wa Mwinyi Haji was showing Andy the filth coming onto his lands. They got along because they were both masters at satire.

Boet and Muhammad Kijuma were connecting too. Boet made him smile more than anyone in a long time Muhammad told him, when Boet gave him some green ink to use. Boet did not tell Muhammad that far off in the future his manuscripts would come up missing in the U.S.A. and not located since.

Andy walked through the waves, and jumping them as they were coming in from the brewing stormy sea. He knew in time, all prayers would be answered best they could. As they walked back, and all gathered back together, Andy spoke, “Fort Jesus, may Poetry Kill Us!”

No, Danger will. Redd proclaimed.

Andy looked at Redd and Boet, and said, “Do not wake-, Dream snatchers. Because cuz, Maybe Is will be gone, this time-.”

The dream became hazy, and the ocean seemed to look like green ink, and they all three awoke, feeling loony, but in a good-good-good way. Or, was it witchcraft?

Andy laid there, and thought about Helliette and th’Zebracazebra, and no, no John E. WordSlinger never knew about Dr. Rozendo Ribiero, and his ambition to train Zebras to be ridable. Andy got up, and right away in the Poetry Trains’ Facebook feed, Facebook claims we owe them three dollars, and Andy laughed his ass off, and posted, We still owe Facebook Security $3.00 and I love it, along with a video of a Beverly Hills Cop 2, Building Inspector scene, and it is hilarious, because Andy and Redd are Poetry vigilantes in a way. In all reality the bank card only had three dollars on it, and they thought to try to advertise, and this was before the world wide news, that Facebook sold out private information to Russia on all members of the site. “Whatever!” Andy said, “Carry on,” and Poetry Trains passengers laughed, and one Poet posted, “You better pay that before the interest starts adding up, and the Facebook police put you in Facebook prison.”

Everyone laughed.

Andy replied, “We have cargo of cheese puffs.”

Everyone laughed again, and the Poet replied, “Good one.”

As Andy and Boet got settled in the dining car, “Where are the Earths’ Drone Poets? Boet questioned.

“Boet you are amazing.” Andy said.

“The thought came to me, has to be Drone Poets and Drone Poems, and I found things.” Boet answered.

“Impressive!” Andy proclaimed. “Start a playlist, Drone Poets & Poems.”

“10/4.”

Redd came, sat down, and listened to the Poets and Poems with Drone art.

“Where is Mathias?” Andy asked.

The word and the sword mixed together, amazing. Redd said, I am sure megalomanics will like this new playlist. I am seeing a neat contrast.

“I wish Poem video creators master text color, and placement on their video Poetry creations, some are hard to read, and take away from the videos viewing.”

“To blend well too, from still to moving pictures.” Andy said, “Smooth transitions. I will study types of drones for us, and licenses.” He looked at Boet, and seen that Boet was onto something.

“Good Morning Gents I have good news.” Mathias said with delightful happiness. “One, I got us reservations at Giraffe Manor, I have an opportunity to get my first academic article published in a scholarly journal, and I am excited about the possibility of losing my academic virginity. I’m telling T.M. Safari to calm down but he too is excited to even cooperate!”

“Nice!” Andy said with a smile. He gave Mathias a high five, and so did Boet and Redd.

“Thanks.” Mathias replied, “Giraffe Manor is on private land within one hundred and forty acres of indigenous forest in the Langata suburb of Nairobi.”

“To Drone or Not to Drone?” Andy asked as he did research on drone tech and law. “Poetical art of course.”

As the train moved east from Kisumu the crew were slowly awakening, to a future throwing them into a future mind set. Andy spoke, “The Dji phantom 3 has twenty minute flight time, imagine that, Robert Anton Wilson would love that. Love the panning features. Mavic Pro 2 has forty four minutes of aero time, and loaded with cameras and features. Love the tracking feature. Fly farther, and see clearer, hmm, sounds like us and our Electric Owl.”

I am looking at the Phantom 4 Pro. Redd said, Good obstacle avoidance will be good.

Everyone laughed.

“Hard choice, wished we could have all three, one each for us.” Boet said.

“I want one too.” Mathias said, “Also I will set us up a day to jump off of the falls of Mount Kilimambogo.”

“YES!” Everyone replied in sync, but were like no way, not anyday soon.

There is the Dji Spark drone Mathias. Redd added.

“Spark me up, I will take one.” Mathias replied.

“They say this drone is a flying rock.” Andy added. “Keep in mind, its flight time be low.”

“So I’ll need extra batteries.” Mathias replied. “Okay love the sunrise yellow color model.” Mathias looked at Andys’ hands, and even being sandy like, green ink stains appear, and Mathias did not say a word. Although Andy sensed this, and he played how to make green ink videos, and laughed. Redd and Boet recalled their dream together.

“Raw ingredients of ink are powder, varnish, and passion.” Andy said. “Like dreams, and there be honey and industrial honey, varnish. Oh honey.” Andy laughed his ass off.

Poems need grind testing like ink. Redd replied, Sticky, tacky, and all must toss the gloss, no loss no loss, Poetry wins again.

“All Poets should use green ink, this makes them highly official.” Boet said.

“I love the drone Poetry video, ‘Poems to the Sky’ by O, Miami Poetry Festival.” Mathias stated.

“Yes indeed, cool big time.” Andy replied. “ I always wanted to roof the U.S.A. flag on a roof so all could see from above.”

“Mr. Welchberry received our love letter.” Andy said, “Okay, morning gents, time for flood light talk, and well, Poet braining camps, share in their fate, and hail the rail week. Ha ha. You know, you know, Poetry may not be compatible, because Poetry is not con-trappable!”

Mr.Welchberry is a hoot in two boots. Redd declared.

“Yes, like, left handed pianoists.” Andy replied. “First in studies for Poets to write screenplays. The Paterson movie, and all reviews prove our points. People want, need, and must create movies of literary arts of all kinds, all Poets and such, movie memoirs. So Poets educate yourselves in screen writing, and stick to your instincts.”

“Flood lights on!” Boet declared. “Poets get jacked daily, time to kick tail.”

I will do the livraison.us and Wanderer books for Canada and Africa. Redd added.

“Sweet.” Andy replied, “World bring on your filter, then we will turn it to shreds.”

“Poets must not be lazy, and connect people more to the beauty and troubles of the world to solve issues.” Boet said, “It is obvious a small percent is engaged to make the world a better place. Seems to me the causes are money, and material things, so they have imprisoned the world. The Poet Aja Monet even states the same. Also how does the world, say ninety of whatever percent let a some percent control without 100% equality?”

Andy looked out the window, and asked them, “When was the last time you had déjà vu?”

A couple of times. Redd replied, and check this out, there are coffee delivering drones, and caves turned into homes.

“It is such a complicated world.” Boet said. “That’s cool Redd.”

“I agree.” Mathias replied. “I have more news for you all, the Queen of Kenya has given us a security team, because the Ghana Poet diplomat Kofi Awoonor was killed in 2013 by a Kenya militant group, so she wants us, and Poetry protected, so if you see these men behind us more than usual that is why.”

The crew looked at each, and then they knew Danger was near, even in the 21st Century.

“I am reading his ‘A Death Foretold’ poem.” Andy stated. “Mind opening. He mentions heaven a lot, and his faith be strong. I love that. What I do not love be, bad people, so right away this morning, we have a nasty thing to talk under our flood light, Plagiarists, and it says here, Plagiarists even copy each other’s excuses, it seems. An article by Poet Kofi Awoonor, and yes, this raises my eyebrows too, does this have a connection with his murderers? Maybe. He mentions Poet Kei Miller, and he says plagiarism is a form of identity theft, not just word theft. Also let me say this and post, it seems an app like Shazam is not important to Poets of the contemporary world? To fill you in again, Shazam be a mobile app that recognizes music and T.V, around you. Nothing against music and T.V. the thing be to me, they united to be, and have looped one over the liteary arts again because they care for their art, and each other. As in performance arts, Heavy Metal bands, and Hip Hop artists support one another, and boost each other up with a tool called respect, a tool of moral regard and love. So as we go over this nasty beast, ponder that. Also by the way, old school country music united doing the same thing. It be a tool, one needs created for the literary arts, and as we mentioned in the Poet Igloo Bill.”

When it becomes important to them they’ll awake, and an awakener is someone who steals your Poems, intellectual property, as he mentions, identity theft. Redd added. So what we have is, Poetry Poachers, and Elephant and Rhino poachers at large here in Kenya.

“Sounds to me it is intellectual rape.” Boet said.

Andy began to read about the Elephants that been killed here in Kenya, and Poetry about this too. “Oh ya the Law at the Library of Congress are ten years behind on this, maybe longer...” Andy passed them all a jar of green ink. He also sent them all the Createspace and Amazon Kindle Direct merger link from the sites news.

“Nommo!” Mathias spoke loud. “Nommo!” He laughed, and said, “Soul preaching, yes I am, Nommo is a word to create harmony, and balance in disharmony aka the sick ills of the world.”

“I find it cool besides Poetry Train, and train stations, we are a rolling brain station too.” Boet proclaimed, and laughed.

“Cool Boet as the world seems to crumble like the Detroit Michigan Train Station.” Andy replied, “Yes, we need drones. Thank you Mathias, love that word, and meaning.”

Maybe Bill Ford Jr will save it. Redd replied, recalling his dream in the USA there at that station in Michigan.

“I am looking at this Yuneec Typhoon H drone.” Andy said. “Poetry Train drone vlogging fellas. God Bless Kenya be beautiful.” After awhile Andy thought about the Russian Poet Alexander Pushkin, as if he knew we, he, Andy, and the team would learn from Pushkin too. “Beatrice Jane Ekesa, has opened a can of wisdom gents.” Andy has been in perpetual Déjà Vu since he awoke. “I am always overwhelmed, and about to thicken up my dominate eyes, although I need to rest my healthy brain.”

Andy you are tuning fork. Redd replied. The can of wisdom by Beatrice Jane Ekesa has Ruth Finnegan, Henry Indangasi, Joseph Muleka, Wanjiku Kabira, Karega Mutahi, John Robert Lee, and Dereck Walcott breathing here, and so far Walcott says, America does not want to mature, seems to want to stay in an adolescence state, freaking amazing... D for diapers.

“D for Dereck Walcott is a puzzle piece, check.” Andy replied.

“D for Danger, Dictator, so listen Trump is now battling Google, so who is the little men with big erasers.” Boet added, “So what does Dave Mustaine think?”

“Hook in Mouth Boet.” Andy replied, “Applause.”

“Dereck Walcott would tell us we are some Poetry Ritualistic Davids, and giants are not ready for this rock called the Poetry Train.” Mathias proclaimed.

“Danger is everywhere y’all.” Andy proclaimed back. “Keep the focus, shield flow, onward forward!”

Poets of the stage versus the Poets of the page. Redd said, Ages and ages of mastered chaos. The Devil is real to me.

“Word!” Andy replied, and scanned the Wall Street Journal news, and wrote down Content Congress, Net Regulation, etc &c...

Boet, Redd and Mathias looked at what else was in the can of wisdom so far. Billy Collins, Mark Eleveld, and Marc Smith.

Green ink alert. Redd said with a smile, Poet Kelly Juuz added us to a Poetry intellectual elite group, a Nigerian based league. “Thank you Kelly Juuz, from me Redd, Andy, Boet, and Mathias. Appreciated and charmed. Juzz has some powerful Poetry.”

“Anti-drug drones, cool.” Andy added, “How about the dealers too, say too about anti- evil politician drones, and maybe anti-child molesting priest drones. World be wackier everyday. No fear, y’all my Poetry be like lasers, I rattle evil people easy, Poet Pilot Andy Sandihands at your service. We real, as said, we aint playin!”

Everyone applauded.

“Location Poetry Train.” Andy added. “Giants eroding, Poetry exploding. Angelhood, ya ya, one little David, two little David three throw, and throw a toe too, boo!.”

“I have a question, does it seem most people have their ears off, like airpods in the ear but off, just curious?” Mathias said, and laughed his ass off.

“People ask if Animals are conscious but not their leaders.” Andy replied.

Maybe looking for a salary for the salad mind ballad, something. Redd replied. Stay away, stay away you are a real Poet, stay away.

“Sweet, a dictionary and listening degree,” Andy replied. “It is all good, we are masters at coping too. That word con, someone kill it already, damn.”

Maybe wisdom, maybe not. Redd said, Bob Holman says spoken word Poetry is no longer an exhibit in a dust museum. Redd laughed. Remember back in the U.S.A. We told James Harmon aka Standing Bear we are knocking the dust off of Youtube?

“Sure do and still are, playlist super.” Andy laughed. “What kills me be not to many think about the Poetry Audience. They come in all forms and walks of life, statements also of his in her essay cause division not addition. So yes math be spinal, and they want their work to go viral ya ya show me some ladder work.”

“We are not rubbing elbows are we, more like making room, large room with our elbows.” Boet said, and laughed.

“Poetry egg hunting Boet.” Andy replied.

“Sounds like verbal toe shooting to me, meaning, memory must be grand, because even spoken word needs jotted down to perform later, correct?” Mathias said.

“Yeah yeah, green ink.” Andy replied, and after a few minutes, Andy said, “Behavioral economics teaches, and says about me and us.” Andy laughed, “We know not much and assume little, percentage certain, we remove curtains for sure.” He laughed again. “Most can know little and assume all they want, but we have Jackie, the real Donkey. We know Poetry be King, and yes we love evidence that says not, and well, where is at? We are in no hurry to move this train, and reveal Poetry heals the brain, and much more. We bleed always, historical evidence. Guts for guts. We sniff, and scratch, unlike no other! We love mistakes, it makes us, let me say like Roofers, on top of things. We respect local Poets, and ones worldwide. We also go to change school, even though the brain washed love the same old things. We apply, and think. We have a sword too that cuts anchors with precision. Rubber swords too, bloodless gadgets. We suck up data like the earth sucks life. I may sound cocky, and it is okay, because it too be a poem, and a song. We are also masters at finding gaps in time, so look for the two pairs of scissors that cut away. Also we don’t understand why people cry when we have an opinion, they want their sore butt only to be known or some crap similar, that be fine, we can be invisible too, but we are not hollow spines, comprehende? Talking to any that read, and listen, Word.”

Everyone smiled but not Andy. He went into a zone like no other, a zone to look for his faults, and a cyclone of suppressed memories hit him like a Poetry Train. He again thought of the Poets and Angels, and he got up, and thought about all the Poet friends and family going through the layers of snares of evil on this planet. He knows Poetry will live on, and much more. Endangered, we are all on the verge of endangerment.

The Nepantla that has always been there revealed things to Andy, and he looked at all the Poets to see if they see the Nepantla too. The zone of this took Andy deeper. He had a vision of a storm, where Angels were angry, very angry, and up rooted every man made thing as fast as it came. Andy knew though he was on a bridge, many of them. The crew were too, but Andy was placed there in a different way. He seen the blood, the blood, and the crying shadows, them ghosts, spirits have been warning them for eons.

Andys’ faith kept him solid, solid as he could. He also sensed the displacement the world was in, and the much more. He also knew Danger was angry too, because Andy was ready, ready as he could to fight evil face to face.

Healing wounds was not easy, when it was wounds perpetually happening all around us. To decolonize all evils from our minds, and it was possible but it takes an all effort, and then like evil, it will show its head sooner or later. Survival was good, but the acts of survival keeps the rigged existence alive. So freedom was a myth in a way as many Poets said before. Love though was real, but it has to be kept clean, clean as one and all can.

Andys’ son texted him, and it said, ‘Stay Buck.’ Andy called Poet Christopher Wishing in Seattle U.S.A. to check on him, and Christopher was alive and well, and his Poem, ‘Mirrored Self’ came to mind.

Andy and the crew were living up to all of their potentials the best they could. The train pulled up to the Nakuru train station. Andy felt those committed evils forcing change on Poets and Animals. Mortally trying to wound them. True Poetry was justice read and heard. Andy again felt the vu, and he took his soul shield up inside to the whirlwind outside. Andy sent them all a message, the snake pit, and Danger are surrounding us.

Boet looked at Andy and said “Wording out of the can are Ciarunji Chesaina, Gil Scott Heron, Isidore Okpewho, Tara Conley, and well, the Nepanthla consciousness.”

“Indeed Boet, the planet be one.” Andy replied. “Divided by the people brain stained taking all arts out of schools, but they can not take them out of homes, so Boet this be another reason why hard copy books are important. Along with Poetry written and by oral tradition. They both are vital to Life, life that has respect for all life. Also Boet there are those that think they are way better than others, and recall, they are having a hard time teaching people to be original, and then they wonder why the world be down falling. Keep in mind, send the poor to war, send the poor to war.”

Mathias read aloud to them the cultural deprivation theory by Pierre Bourdieu.

Andy laughed, and replied, “No wonder why I hated school, but they did not pick up I was not a fool, and I was and shall always be cool, and that goes for you three too. As I said, no respect for life, and soul integrity. Poets, bring it to them as true hard core Poets always have, ya ya you know the ones I am screaming. Sow their evil mouths of opinions shut with spider wire spine Poetry. Take lessons from the history and wisdom of Russian Poets too. I am taking a nap, before I become a sleep walking fool.”

Andy looked at his messages as he went to his roomette, and decided he needed some time to rest, rest to lead, because being a high Poetry official, rest was needed for the war, between the power of performance in the arts and the performance of power by the state.

Redd, Boet and Mathias finally ordered some munchies, and waters as more people boarded the train, and they studied the works of Ciarunji Chesaina, Maisha T. Fisher, and Karin Barber. Redd knew Andy was re-charging his soul in all times and spaces, he was a Sapphire Soul, dreaming in all times of all kinds of wars. They watched The Trial of Dedan Kīmathi play by Ngugi Wa Thiong‟o and Micere Githae Mugo as they refreshed themselves awake.

Andy knelt down, prayed, and while praying thought of all seven Angels through time, to help the Poetry Train crew in these modern times.

“Dear Creator of all things, all lands have been ravished with all evils of all sorts, and my gut says even more we can not see. What are we to do? We are not failing, we are protecting wisdom, and animals the best we can. We are out numbered, and not funded to participate on any levels but our senses, to write, to listen, and we have listened, and we are being taken. When we all Poets pass, by your call home, what will they do to our work, and to time here. I feel, we are the last of the Poets, many may have felt the same way. We carry the torch, the real torch, and the winds are furious, they are not your winds, so we need yours to defend us. Our wisdom be from many, our your human children, along with ours. We need your mighty Angels. Danger be all around us. We see the blood, we see it bleeding from all eyes behind the skin as tears, tears, and the tears of mine are ice. We hurt!” Andy laid down, and slept. As Ngugi Wa Thiong‟o spoke o, secret stories come in the day times too, as one dreams.

The dream slowly appeared, Andy played a table game, called the Poetry Train, and it was new to him, then, it was a home console game, then it was a game on television, then it was a real life train and a game, although it was not a game, and blurry the game drifted into a war zone but this war was unlike any war seen to Andy. The Devil versus his own demons. Lou Lucy itself had failed to kill Andy when he was a boy, and many other times. Andy was clean as a whistle when it came to being prejudice, and in fact Andy had type, the Angel divine blood, so the failed demons were slaughtered by their own master, and Andy laughed, because that is what happens to the brain washed. New demons appeared, and chased Andy like ghosts in the Pacman game. Andy recalled how to win, then the game went into stages in reverse, real, televised, and a table game, and Andy awoke slightly, and spit behind him on the roomette wall, and laid there listening, deeply. “I am not a judge, because the noose would be back into being loose!” Andy said, and went back into a thought zone. He laughed, because he recalled, Ngugi Wa Thiong‟o has done a lot of time traveling too. Andy thought, there be the law, and there be the drill.

Andy did not fully realize Angels were protecting them, their hearts, minds, and souls, just like the Poetry Train surrounds themselves with books. His faith was heard.

Andy may feel uncomfortable here, he knows, the devil conquered here long ago, so when he comes we must try to ease his sorrow. Redd spoke.

“Okay!!” Boet and Mathias replied.

“Bury and cover me with books, and with the wilderness in the wilderness.” Andy said upon his return, “Ngugi Wa Thiong‟o says you can’t tame the Irish. Wappello too, Ngugi Wa Thiong‟o, I love that. Until then though I am a Poet human drone in soul form too, time traveling.”

“On the America journey you all proved Heaven was next to us, and Ngugi Wa Thiong‟o says, we can not argue our way to heaven, only to show, and as he says also, good readers, Poetry readers will find you, so as you all say, availability is the key.” Boet stated. “I love all this.”

“Andy, Howard Zinn says historically, the most terrible things, war, genocide, and slavery have resulted not from disobedience, but from obedience.” Mathias said, “Stay tame-less Andy.”

“He also says, the Irish were more advanced at literature too.” Boet added.

“My memory be a gift beyond beyond.” Andy replied. “Tameless so timeless.”

“Everyone laughed.

A passenger spoke to them, “When we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard or welcomed. But when we are silent, we are still afraid. So it is better to speak. An Audre Lorde wisdom snack.”

“Let’s speak about these near ninety Elephants slaughtered in Botswana this month.” Andy said. “The madness never ends. I mean look at this with a microscope, this new Createspace moving your books to Kindle Direct Publishing.”

The passenger was a Sheng Poet, a under-class east-land Poet of Kenya, and he introduced himself, “Moses Onduru is my name, and I write, and speak Poetry,” and he asked to sit with the crew, and they agreed.

Andy was busy but glanced at the mans thick long green socks, black short shorts, and his black and gold Mexico shirt. They all noticed too, and they also noticed his bead bracelets, and bead necklaces. For some reason this man reminded Andy of a turtle.

Redd was working the can, and the wisdom of Dill, Bell Hooks aka Gloria Jean Watkins came oozing, so much, even about love relationships.

“I also am an metal artist.” Moses Onduru said. “I engrave, and mostly Animal art is what I create.”

Mathias and Boet knew Sheng is a Swahili and English-based cant, perhaps a mixed language or creole, originating among the urban underclass of Nairobi, Kenya, and influenced by many of the languages spoken there. While primarily a language of urban youths, it has spread across social classes and geographically to neighbouring Tanzania and Uganda. The word Sheng is coined from the two languages that it is mainly derived from, Swahili and English. Mathias talked to him while the crew did research.

Moses spoke, “I am a Manamba, a master innovator of Sheng, and stand in between the global and the local.”

“We do too.” Everyone replied in sync.

Andy looked at Redd, and shook his head because, again the Poets worldwide were getting hit by this Createspace and Kindle change, meaning it forces everyone to have a kindle, and a no hands on book, and it should be a choice. Andy thought about Lulu.com, and read more. Boet went to go get everyone coffee.

Andy laughed, and asked, “What be book stuffing? Well it says here, book stuffing be a trick where fake snakey people slip entire old books into the back of their latest ebook, getting significantly more pages in front of their reader’s eyeballs and taking a larger chunk of the royalty fund that is paid per number of pages read. Wow, the H-crap never ends.”

I find it interesting in how people talk to each other when it pertains to money, shackled sounding. Redd stated.

“Indeed.” Andy replied, “I as a man like an octopus only have so many arms to swing my hammers with. We are going to have to see what happens. Again once people create something good that needs no fixing, they jazz it up, thinking they are improving, and actually not, but hey, I get it, the cost of living gets higher, and so does dying too. By the way I made some phone calls to America to see how Poets were, and they seemed back offish, oh well carry on.”

I am sure they are ones we admire, and care for. Redd replied. I am going to launch the Wanderers Poetry books for Canada and Africa on Monday. Waiting on an address from a Poet. No word yet from the whereabouts of the two American Wanderers were.

Boet returned with coffee.

Moses began to explain Sheng to the crew, and tell them about Poets that write, and speak Sheng Poetry.

“We pack, meaning live being as conte, meaning tough as we can, and we are always on the mbota, meaning, on the watch.” Moses said.

“Poet Rebaone K. Motsumi has informed us, the Elephant killings are fake news.” Andy said with relief.” Again who has time to create H-crap like this, good God almighty, and why? Yes the next seller book, will be a 300 page book of just the word ″WHY″ in it, the word WHY right after one another.”

After a moment of reading in disgust Andy spoke, “Poetry and screenplays are formatted way different and this H-Crap will alter the interiors beyond readability, so for me, this be an adolescent decision. Back to oral tradition, the complete circle is near, very near.”

Andy looked at all the bad news and slim good news in the U.S.A., and the good was Andy spoke, “Brigid Guertin, executive director of the Danbury Museum & Historical Society launched a Cursive camp, and people flocked to it. Also Tamara Thornton, a University of Buffalo history professor and author of ‘Handwriting in America: A Cultural History,’ says cursive was considered handwriting drills, conforming to rules, other peoples rules, interesting statement. Writing be good for the brain, and the train. Maybe everyone should return to letter writing, maybe that would save humanity, maybe. Love letters, letters like that.”

Moses was talking about envy, when people envy you they will do everything and anything to hurt you, even ignore you. He said, “To be in love, is trust, a high nest trusted with commitment, faithfulness, loyalty, living life for your children, and given mate, amen! Love is a woman, and an unconditional man, and I apologize if I done wrong amen! You do not have to worry about anything, if God is in your heart.”

Andy looked at Redd, and lifted his eyebrows. Andy thought, this man knows what we were going through. An aching secret it be, Redd too lost his mother, around the same time, and he has never said a word, and Moses felt their sorrow, because he lost his son too. Love in all forms takes a beating.

Moses spoke again, “Mavi, way to much mavi, meaning smack. Graffiti don’t need batteries, and many are not out for Poetry. Turf, surf, write it all down. Maisha ni gweng bana, meaning life is hard, for when one like those of ourselves that truly care. Always write, note it all.”

Boet added, “Love is like html, it holds it all together, even though, a great deleter is at large, fear that is.”

The Poetry Train editors too have been giving the crew encouragement, onward, forward, upward, keep the course. Danger and its fearful ways will be defeated.

Boet found many more Kenya Poets, and the train moved on, while Redd and Andy thought about the whereabouts of all the Createspace.com laid off employees were, or their out of work sub-contract printers.

Feedaread.com is open for business, check it out. Redd said, Hmm a U.K. Worldwide competitor we never heard about.

“Kenyas’ poor Poets are changing the society through Poetry, to teach all they can to harness the power within, while Pirates, are all around us, y’all.” Andy said. “Furthermore Google, out growing itself and the EU are in an online border war, the free speech, privacy, and cyber-crime dance. Content moderation congress and policies. Global Network Initiative. Wait, pyrates outsmarting society for all of the intellectual property is what it is, and a majority riding the downward spiral of all created. What else, the U.S.A. and China be in a battle for 5G domination. Driverless cars, and I find this strangly odd, driverless cars anyway don’t ya think? Ha ha. Maybe closer to the Poet Igloo Bill anyway, Ha ha. America maybe going on the cyber defensive but their Poets sure have not, Ha ha. An intelligence collection of what? Military what, good God almighty, where and the Heaven be the PEACE MACHINE? WHERE?

Says, cyber commisons have their hands tied, more like tying the world up to cell phone companies and cable companies. Keep in mind folks when you post a video on Facebook and Twitter, it is NOT viewcounted, so this means it does not register a view if you are those that like numbers on Youtube, so what kind of theivery is this? Also keep in mind later here soon, they all change their names, and get tax write offs after they robbed your time and intelectual whatever. I may as well call myself a sleep walker tracker, Ha ha. Folks first they are taking your minds, then wearables as WordSlinger predicted in 2005. Digital amazon, who’d thought? Where be our checks... Investors sinvestors, ya ya... Sold out, all about clout, and not to many shout, Ha ha. Censor everything! Forum for rum, mind rum, yep, pyrate mind rum!! No more safe harbor coming up. OWE, just call us stupid Poets though... Info wars my fanny dumb foe wars. For super drugs and super bugs. So what’s happening all over Africa?”

No one laughed.

Boet replied, “We have people sneaking, claiming exodus into Europe, and ironicly sailing by night. I bet the porn idustry hating that. Beer is a huge thing now, huge, so yes get everyone drunk and take take take take, and drunks will be called the bad folk. Ebola is growing, so can’t blame anyone from getting away from that death trap. And so who knew you all were coming here? Because everyone wants to come to Africa now?”

Imagine that? Redd replied.

“People still do not realize world war three happened the first day after world war two., Hello?” Andy added. “Heaveno-Still there be PEACE on the dead end street named Poetry, and I love it. Your minds may not be yours and your purchaces next, then all you wrote, that’s all folks, Big Bugs Bunny pulling the great fast one. Doh dope, all tied to the electric rope in the name of progress.”

Andys received his birthday book from a woman Poet he has fallen in love with in the U.S., a blessing from God Andy says to Redd in private. The book entitled, ‘As A Man Thinketh’ by James Allen was the gift. A fan too sent the crew a book ‘Memory’ by I.M.L. Hunter. Redd and Andy were shaking the fences. Boet had the can of wisdom open as Redd and Andy contemplated the true power of oral tradition, homemade chap books, and the Poets in the Wanderer books via LivRaison.us. Mathias and Moses were engaged in wisdom as well.

“A Question, and we may know the answer, does Poetry have another name?” Andy asked, “Through our Canadian journey we found Scratch, and symbol, the muse of Poetry. Also is memory diverse as Mother Nature, and the Universe?”

“Stay virtuous.” Moses said with a positive smile. “Do not suffer much for those that careless about the purity of this mission. Stay noble regardless. I too see the disease of the planet, aimless destroying the beauty of all.”

They were all inside the portal staying present on the future eating blue berries, walnuts, and drinking watermelon juice laced with lemon juice.

Andy and Redd telepathically thought, To retain the brain train, and calm all pain, still recalling that the art be in the doing, and same as loving. Angelic thoughts high, low, and the middle, not shaking the fence, but breaking it so Peace can be.

“I do like it though when you all rock this train, very cool.” Moses stated.

Thanks.

“Trying to awake to calm, another trade of storm chasing.” Andy replied. “The place to live be on planet earth, brain washed free, but taught wisdom of all deeply.”

“Word, we are at the helm.” Boet replied. “Poetry sweet in sour bad blood deep, as some would do, ignore ignorance those that sleep.”

We have to notify Charlie, Channilo has mutually kept us as we them, in this turmoil time for writers. Redd said. Linking is thinking. A few people here and there follow us there.

“Cool.” Andy replied, “Yes, had a fabulous birthday, what’s funny, some think I was born yesterday, Ha ha, and mayhaps, perhaps today, and tomorrow I go too.”

Boet found more Sheng Poets and Poems from Kenya as he let looses wisdom from Kim Black, and Tammie Jenkins.

Mathias was engaging the following days agenda, and Moses, well Moses was in the divine time.

“Andy going back to your question, and what we have learned, the muse takes on any sex, depends on the listeners and readers skills.” Boet said, “So is spoken word Poetry derived from its genealogical contributions? Take the wisdom of Robert Anton Wilson from Langauge and Reality, and the answer be no, must be a divine shine.”

Clarity shakes. Redd replied, Reality on pins.

Andy laughed. “Perhaps, mayhaps.”

Peace is so real. Redd stated. As the Donkey.

Moses began to beatbox like a train, and threw in sound effects, mimicing animals from Africa. “No angst, although I have Shangst.”

“Yes Moses.” Boet shouted, and stood up, “We have another can of wisdom. DADA, SURREALISMS, FUTURISMS.”

Everyone applauded.

“I am the outsider looking in.” Moses said, “My perspective to all four of you are a grand symphony of hours of long living flowers, and my question be, how do you do it? I knew when I was young I’d write, so same for you?”

‘Yes, a do or die loving choice.’ Redd and Andy said in sync. Andy actually saved my life, Redd replied, Boosted me to keep Poetry.

Boet laughed, and said, “I am hooked now, and am like where and what was I doing, so thanks.”

Mathias replied, “I am awestruck by all this, and myself. Gents, we are in Molo, and to be in Nakuru soon.” When Mathias said Nakuru he had a big smile on his face.

Boet found more wisdom from ‘Heterogeneity and Performance of Spoken Word’ in Kenya by Beatrice J Ekesa. He put the wisdom of Jean Francois Lyotard on the table. “So Scientists exclude narrative knowledge.”

“Scientists maybe philosophers hustlers.” Andy replied, and laughed. “Poets maybe to spooky for them, because they have their own evidence, and be empirical in a different way.”

Mathias laughed his tail off, and replied, “Knowledge and wisdom, two different beasts indeed.”

Redd laughed, and replied, Poets and Poetry do have differends for sure, loads and loads, in fact train loads of damages, etc &c.

“He knows too, the greatest be within the smallest, and the Poets efforts to make the world a better place.” Andy added. “We though blend until the end.”

Boet laughed, and said, “Jean Francois Lyotard did not see us coming did he?”

Everyone laughed.

“Trast the cons.” Andy said firmly, “Trast them.”

The Train stopped at the Nakuru, and they got more coffee, juices, and fruits, furthermore their dreams whispered to them again, small doses. Flamingos were everywhere as they were in their dreams.

Boet was on it, and he gathered Julia Kristeva wisdom. Moses ate. Redd done secret research, and Andy, well Andy was about to get random again. Mathias clocked the rock, and the days ahead docs.

“Narrative wisdom, narrative wisdom, narrative wisdom, and when all are about to fade, write out the Narrative wisdom, narrative wisdom, narrative wisdom, oral written, what matters be, capturing it all with heart and soul, period, furthermore safeguarding.” Andy stated. “Be, and stay neo in all language games. Sometimes I feel like Dale Earnhardt, the intimodar, although not against establishments or organizations, so I can say this though, I like to pop wheelies, and burn rubber, just to let them all know we are here so Fredric Jameson be cool to me.”

Redd laughed his tail off, and said, Back to and Justice for all.

“We riding through.” Boet said, and laughed.

“Poetry Train meme, Poetry Train symbol, tattoo, Poetry Train the freaking T.V. Series.” Andy said with confidence. “Maybe, Ha ha Rudolf Arnheim could be our red nosed Reindeer. Ut oh I made a parody, not sorry.”

Redd laughed, and said, We for sure are not historically deaf.

Everyone laughed, and said, We heard that!

Boet, Mathias, and Moses, Dale Earnhardt was a great race car driver, and died racing, one of the best. Redd explained

“I love his last name for sure.” Boet replied. “Earn it with heart.”

Moses looked at Andy, and said, “Flamingos are signs of true love, and balance.”

“Thank you.”

“Confidence too.” Moses added.

Andy looked at Redd, and smiled.

“Boom boom.” Boet said, “Julia Kristeva, well maybe Poetry to most is like, milk that sat out to long, or a dead body. Poetry seems abject to most, not objective, and not subjective, but add a beat to it, and talk about the seven deadly sins, Poetry sells.”

“We are our pact with links.” Andy said. “In the name of another drummer. As Ngugi Wa Thiong‟o says, no one can argue their way into Heaven. Ha ha, Hey all is good, I do not look into the mirror, I am a wound, not wounding a soul, so have some control yourselves, Ha ha. Woundy none crying me, disrespect pisses me off though, to the max. All in all I like my none food fed abjective self, feels like I am Geronimo, Ha ha. There is no power to horror, when you fear the power of the Holy.”

Boet found more Poets from Kenya, and they all listened, and were soul blown. He also poured out more wisdom from the can, Terry Eagleton, and Redd and Andy added that man to the mighty buck list.

Literary icons such as Martin Coyle, Meyer Howard Abrams, and J.L Austin were studied too, and they all seen the differences between them, the Brits and the Yankees.

“I have to recall now to my memory I am reading a book called Memory, Ha ha I love it.” Andy said, “I am a gardener of my own mind and soul, and of course you all are too, Ha ha.”

Moses began to join in on the fun, and spoke, “To say something is to do something, by J.L Austin, and seems to me the world does not want to talk about it, they all walk away from Poetry. Seems to me they dont want to talk about it, Walk Away by the James Gang, love that song.”

Andy and Redd looked at each other, and laughed. Redd stated, They only pass by the bridge, and he laughed and laughed. “Say something to WordSlinger to do something, and see if he doesn’t sling some love back, Ha ha.”

WORD!

They all listened to an online Richard Schechner interview, and his wisdom, analogies hit home to all the crew.

“Poetry hockey,” Boet said, and laughed.

“He knows what’s up worldwide.” Mathias added.

“Not a soul told us we were re-collecting, no one had to too.” Andy said, “Living over old times, remembering when, oh rememnering when, oh Théodule Armand Ribot, remembering imagination is a ghost, toast to the ghost, nering nering. What if memory had a stick shift, so we could take agreeable companions, also I’d like to take non-agreeables too, Ha ha, and sling them through suspenseful unpleasant moments, hey, pain and sorrow creates masterpieces, define time with us, Ha ha.”

We have the letter A, the letter B, and the letter C, and Redd continued on, and said, Recogn the retained! Events, events, events, a pause, events, events, events.

“Right, Oh the possibilities to be forgotten in a humanity born rotten.” Andy replied. “Who rotten? Prepare yourselves for disasters, this be so, you can remember, if not, careless, so, hmm I see the nails head.”

“It has occurred to me Doctors, we are scientists of the past, trying to cure now.” Boet said mimicking a 19th Century British white man.

Everyone laughed.

“Maybe we should know more flower words.” Mathias said.

Everyone laughed again.

“No, animal words, like a roaring ribbit, a chirping moo, a woofing neigh, or a meowing oink.” Moses said, “You know the more I hear academic crap the more I love WordSlinger better.”

“Hee Haw, to the Baa baa.” Andy said, he looked out the window, and spoke in a sincere sad tone. “I have always wanted to come here, I love life, all life, and when I read Africas’ history it makes me sad. There be something serious wrong, and seems no matter how much we that make the world a better place. It gets stopped, torn up, and crapped on for better living, enlightening and such. Doing the right thing must be very hard for most, and all this and that racial stuff, I call H-crap, because behind closed doors, many of each other would desire one another, and that speaking not on love terms but of lustful desires. As wise ones know, children of all races would get along way much better than adults, true and not sad. I can say I am not ashamed of being Irish and Wappello, never killed a person, never thought to, unless a person harmed me, family or friend. My experiences in life tell me, most white people can not be trusted. Hard truth. I hear from many other races, that they too can not trust most of their kind, so this tells me, it is a up bringing issue, a child rearing problem. I am glad you all see through the fire and smoke of this world. Sin be hard core and real as we are. May God have mercy on all evil, or not.”

Mathias decided to change the conversation, “We will be facing Mount Kenya soon.”

“Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe.” Boet said.

A masterpiece thank God. Redd replied.

“Word.”

“Speaking of Kenya, read Facing Mount Kenya by Jomo Kenyatta.” Moses requested. “Andy ignorance from both sides causes the worlds’ turmoil.”

“Okay, let’s listen to Jeffery Gettleman, “Love, Africa: A Memoir of Romance, War and Survival.” Andy replied, and he looked at Moses, and asked, “Are you hungry, you are homeless aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Moses replied.

Andy looked at Redd, Boet, and Mathias, and said, “You are welcome to join the team, we need all the help we can get, and we are on a budget, so you are welcome to ride with us, your call, and I am sure these men would love that.”

Redd looked at Andy, smiled, and said, This is our home, and feel welcome.

Boet looked at Mathias, smiled, and both, said, “Welcome aboard the Poetry E Train.”

Andy ordered Moses a meal, and drink.

“None of you are married I am assuming.” Moses said, “And none in the crew.”

Redd and Andy arose their eyebrows as they always do for inquiring inquiring minds, and Redd replied, Maybe one day, as of now, no one has wanted to help, besides our editor Munia Khan.

Boet spoke, “Not married as of yet Moses, we are hard at work, and Love is all around us.”

“Fools are all around us too.” Andy added. “Moses it is great to ask questions, make sure you know us on some.”

We are covered with ethnopoetics sap, from Poet trees Moses. Redd said.

“Emily Dickinson has a great metaphor about friendship, let me find it.” Andy said.

Boet played some venn diagrams so others can learn about math in literature, and right away everyone laughed their fannys on.

Turn that crap off Boet, we have fuzzy wazzy wacky math. Redd demanded.

Everyone laughed again.

“They betray all Masters dead or alive, believe that.” Andy said, and kept looking for that hard core metaphor. He became wayward, and spasmodic. He too like Emily was not conformed, although he was abeliever in God, and the crew looked at Andy here and there without him knowing.

Redd spoke, He is building his mind muscles, because neuroscientists love bad ass Poets. They claim to anyway.

Everyone laughed but Redd, and Andy.

“I can not find it at the moment but it is there like our skulls.” Andy said. “Before I address what I am reading, I want to say something Poets are not maids or butlers to science. Poets are servers of the realms, this realm and others, beautiful or ugly. Science should kneel to Poets in my ass onion opinion, yes. The nerve, and they can’t stop the war machines, again, H-crap.” Andy looked at Moses and sensed aggression. “Science out of sight, that’s my insight. Ya ya I know there are good ones but they haven’t revealed themselves. We the true Poets know the enormity, and personally I am happy I never made it past bucket number three, screw Bozo.”

Redd laughed, and asked, “What did you find?”

“Well, you know that time when we felt Emily Dickinsons soul, and she knows we are on the right road, well, the spirit realm the no comedy zone, or tragedy joke.”

Ah, I remember. Redd replied.

“I wish I can find that article about professional percussionists are true time travelers.” Andy said. “I am reading, The Brain Is Wider Than the Sky, What Emily Dickinson Can Teach Neuroscience by Evan Thompson, also wisdom by Gerald Edelman, Stanislas Dehaene, Kenneth Burke, and Francis Crick. Hold on.” Andy read on, and on, and he also sent them the info, and shared to all passengers on the Poetry Train.

WordSlinger was right about her dash, she be poking us through time, and he told Nardine Sanderson, she knew we would read her, find her and figure it out, so in other words she too traveled time. Redd said. His dash period period period little mind space then back period period period dash, meaning rail to rail and gravel in between, and also mind touch, touching. What a mental wave length.

Moses looked at Mathias, and he at Boet, and silence deepens, but then Boet spoke, “She knew she’d have her own society then and now. Wow, imagine, two hundred years from now, hmm, same.”

“Look look you all, God works in way more mysterious ways than imagined.” Andy said. “The Devil too, sadly God allows this.”

This is why Eugene Gendlin, and the University wanted WordSlinger in 1989, he was shining bright even then, but he declined, to be hi own-original, he knew too, the future, he felt it at least. Redd added.

“Question, are we revealing the mystery?” Boet asked.

Be very quite we are hunting rabbit. Redd replied.

Andy stood up, and said, “Let’s go to the back of the train and look out the window, and say hi there to what be being left behind, onward upward. Charlie is going to like this, and Yotanka too, they get it, and fly in peace Geo Thompson, well he be with Emily cheering us on. In the vast mud-blood puddle, and it would not be mud, but the dirt of sin contaminated it.”

“More sap.” Moses said.

Yes!

“By the way, we have your so called friends calling you two, and posting threats to your lives.” Boet said.

We all ready know Boet, as we said, Danger be near. Redd replied.

“Love shall reign!” Andy replied. “Poet Terry Scott Niebeling, and Deborah Thompson even knew what WordSlinger meant by the symbol -... ...-”

“I bet WordSlinger is happy privacy is dead, now he can ring the life out of the open.” Boet said.

Everyone laughed, and decided to stay put by Andys sitting back down.

Redd recalled when Andy passed out in the House of Commons in Canada. The brain and the train knows how to read, and Andy reads totally different and he taught Redd to read like that. Boet was on it too, showing them all the wisdom of Stanislas Dehaene, and it revealed people need to make room in their brains for Poetry and Trains. As Andy asked, where are the left handed pianoists? Mirror mirror on the floor we no longer need you anymore, meaning adulthood your meaning lost its core. Mathias was about to intervene because they had a long way to go, the train moved slow, because of weather frantic glow, and the track too with the train had to know what was left and right. Many people knew that the Poetry Train crew were smart asses and they were close, but off/on, the crew were Doritos, Donkeys, Asses hauling wisdom to the masses. Hee Haw to the Baa Baa.

“Stanislas Dehaene says cursive helps the brain learn to read, so again, why take them out of schools, why those that write cursive curl up into a ball in the corner of existence, and kneel to the none powers that be?” Andy asked. “Oh ya, no wonder France wants to block out the U.S.A.”

Everyone looked at Redd, and he raised his eyebrows.

Boet added, “Children all over the world learn the same.”

“Speak to your children, or they’ll stammer or hesitate, and if you believe in luck, their own confidence will Poetry up, and break the plate.” Andy said.

“Men, you two are like Kenneth Burke, collegeless, and full of will, heart, and smarts.” Boet said.

Who out of us five is the act, scene, agent, agency, and purpose? Redd asked. Ratio Poetry, Ratio Railways, Ratio Poet global protection, Ration wisdom, Ratio animals, Ratio planet life, Ratio justice, and Ratio Peace.

“Calico afterglow become like Buffalo raise the audio, Poetry tae kwon do, holy Joe one day you too will be in long ago, overflow, over throw, political vertigo, Words slung as torpedoes, so what do you know?” Andy replied.

Everyone laughed.

“Poetry Radio.” Boet replied, and laughed, “As I said, you two are like Kenneth Burke. You two are following Poetrys foot prints, am I correct?”

You found one Rabbit Boet. Redd replied.

Andy looked at Moses, and replied, “Maybe trying to take away ignorances’ ax Boet. Also duality the protagonist and the antagonist cutting through the H-crap mist, with Poetrys’ Historys’ fist.”

Redd laid his head on his hands placed on the table, and hummed the song, ‘Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood’ by the Animals. Andy knew what that meant, history was repeating itself loud and clear.

Mathias smiled.

Boet spoke, “The Devils tongue, back biting, and scorn Poetry’s more famous than Poets’ Poetry, isn’t it?”

“Thou Shall Not Love Poetry!” Moses said.

Everyone looked at Moses, and Redd said, College is free in Egypt, maybe everyone reads Poetry and writes in private, and everyone laughed.

“The new cook book, how to vote for the right crook.” Andy said.

“You all do know we are gypsy scholars, right.” Mathias asked.

No, we are alphabet junkies Mathias. Redd replied.

“Sing this with me, and follow me down the aisle of the train to that last car, and back again.” Andy said, “Obvious phe no men on, phenomenon, Obvious phe no men on, phenomenon, Obvious phe no men on, phenomenon. Magicians, Magicians, same ol Political transitions. School kid machines, School kid machines, spelllllll machine, m a c h, I n e. - And we MacPoetry, and we MacPoetry! Wangwill, prangle, we got th’jingle and th’jangle. Think green ink-Era Kenya, Kenya era, mega green ink, mega.”

They marched down, and up the train, and the song, Poem rushed through the veins on the train. Once back in the dining car, they all sat down, and laughed.

“Oral tradition coming up.” Boet said, “Yes, definition, great Poetry maybe untranslatable. Yet, paradoxically only great Poetry is worth to translate. Don’t ask who said that, maybe Poetry haters of sorts.”

Everyone laughed.

Moses asked, “Are todays’ Poets at war amongst themselves as the rest of humanity be?”

Great question Moses, Redd replied. I believe there’s a song about that by the Fixx, ‘Our We Ourselves’ Me, and Andy grew up listening to them. Speaking for us, we are free. Poetry freed us regardless of status status, so statisticly we are free, us.

“What rhymes with globalization?” Andy asked.

Mathias replied, “African Nation, affiliation, alliteration, appreciation, association, authentication, authorization, beat generation, certification, civilization, coeducation, cohabitation, collaboration, elaboration, equalization, gratification, harmonization, imagination, improvisation, investication, justification, machine translation, mystification, novelization, participation, purification, simplification, syncronization, unification, verification, visualization, and Word-Radiation.”

“Yeah!” Everyone said.

“These words in Sheng or Swahili would be fun to perform.” Moses said, and laughed. The crew were pleased.

“If we were in a crowd, performed that Poem we just did up, and down the aisle, we’d have to sway our shoulders, and that there Moses, would, separate the ocean, because righteousness clears, nothing stands in the way of the good.” Andy said. “What kills me is they teach world leaders this too, believe me, instinct of this is rare. It’s a confidence walk dance only coming to those who are fed up or some sorts, and used to show power. Only God knows the hearts of these men and women.”

Moses got down on his hands, and knees, and prayed. He recited the classical Swahili Poem known as Kasida called the Kasidatul-Hamziya fil-madaihi n-Nabawiya. The Hamziyyah poem by Sayyid Abdallah is a Swahili version of the Arabic poem Umm-al-Qura. A Poem dated back later than the 17th Century.

Redd and Andy recalled what Lion boy told them back in the U.S. That Poetry began in Arabia.

Moses was protecting them with this Poem, and Boet and Mathias were enlightened too by this.

“Look I am confused, who wrote the Poem, Sayyid Abdallah or Imam al-Busiri, Good God Almighty, well tells me and all, why we are on this rescue mission.” Andy said. “Carry on Moses with your blessings.”

Redd watched the weather because the rains were heavy, and the motion slow, all was good to go though.

After hearing the Poem, Andy said, “God the ticket master of the elevated train station, pan right, pan left, center was key, center. Center to center, as his father once told him. Everyone who knew the Poem on the train chanted it.”

Everyone it is World Rhino Day, and everyone at Wildheart Wildlife Foundation are hard at work, and need support, pass it on. Redd declared.

Andy got random again, and said, “I am the Poetry whino Poetry Rhino on the yes yes Roundabout, and born with a Slinging horn, torn and torn, love and tribulation sorn. Dang, where is Seth when we need him to play a song for us?”

Mount Kenya in sight.

Moses looked at Mathias, and the rest of the crew, and spoke, “Land of the Holy Hills.”

They all looked with wonderment, in tumia, meaning, silence. The rain rained away and the view from the train was a blessing, and new kind of blessing.

Moses spoke, “God is truth. Mt. Kenya is Sinai. The Nyiragongo, be the center of the earth. Virunga chain’s actually Mt. Zion. Nyiragongo’s Mt Zion.” Moses looked away, and spoke, “He who’s in you, be greater than he who is in the world.”

Andy thought about all of the animals, all of them there on this continent through time, and now. He took a deep breath, held it, released it slow. It was the dwelling place of God.

“Thai.” Moses spoke, meaning peace. “The Mountain of peace,”

Redd looked at Andy, Boet, Mathias, and smiled, and they smiled back.

Moses spoke again, “Mount Kenya, keep in mind, about the ark, the people as well. The Agikuyu people are descendants of the tribe of Levi.” Moses said. “The men devout their lives guarding the ark of the covenant site become permanently blind after so long from the brightness light shone from this ark!! They die shortly thereafter! The twelve seers of Mt. Kenya who guard these sacred artifacts are going to reveal the original scroll of Moses. Not me, you know. No offense Andy, but white people are known here as heathens.”

“All good, God knows what’s down. What Angel type we are!” Andy replied.

Boet looked at Andy in a different way, meaning pay close attention. Boet became like them, and they like trees, in how they talk to one another. Poets were much more than people read. Their purity of channel, antenna, and most of all, empathy. Like trees, Poets need each other.

Boet spoke, “I am going to get random, but evil is evil, color does not matter, in our times, It’s the corporations destroying the forests, earth and water. It’s corporations who are responsible for the radiation flowing into our oceans, air and earth. It’s also our lawmakers who are allowing this, and who also gain financially from allowing the horrible destruction of our earth. So, don’t fall for the guilt these people are trying to make us all feel. If you want to do something, demand from our lawmakers uncorrupted laws that do what they’re supposed to do. Protect the people, protect the earth for us and for our children.”

Everyone still remained in tumia. They were in their own world within this world. Within a world only God knew. In tumia they smiled, in and out.

Poetry has a mother tree, or maybe thee mother tree. Redd said, The earth is an ecosystem and human activity lacks the understanding of the impact of over harvesting resources has on global sustainability of the planet. Love scientists, what we need, only those that love, not the ones from mid 20th Century. We should go back in time, and well.”

“Evil lumberjacks are everywhere, freaking everywhere.” Andy said. “We are rhyme travelers with everywhere to go.”

Right!

Red spoke, I have a riddle for you all, and others that hear slash listen. This entity is one of triplets. It hangs in the air like a curse, rings with noble purpose, sits behind glass like an ax, be a single parable that desires to multiply, and then reduces and does not want to, but it tries to tell you what to do, also it makes you seem powerless, and full of blame, and is way beyond grown and unknown, and it screams constantly. LEAVE ME ALONE? One clue, it has known every person, and being that has sensed this planet and its worlds.

Andy laughed, and said, “That’s brilliant good, way to good-brilliant Redd.”

Everyone thunk in tumia.

“You all are protected by the Kenya government, can you all stop the train, and explore here, because I have something to show you?” Moses asked.

They all looked at him, and each other, and Redd replied, Mayhaps can happen.

“That’s fine with me,” Andy said, “Want to point this out, some may know but, the cell phones are the marks of the beast, so sure, why not, we only fear God anyway. He wakes us awake, and wakes us up dead, we know.” Andy laughed his skull wider. “All they have to say over the intercom is, No more warnings about smoking on the train, and we are stopping this train, and kicking you off. They stop the train, and do the law law thing, and we do our thing, Ha ha.”

Where do you want to take us Moses? Redd asked.

“To the prayer caves, and they are located on top of an ancient, extinct volcano, the caves sink into the largest caldera of the Menengai Crater.” Moses replied. “The caves are filled with ancient spirits.”

Boet was still in awe of the epic view.

Mathias spoke, “I will call the Queen of Kenya.” He left, and they noticed him cover his stomach.

Andy looked at Redd, and tele-thought, No.

Andy looked up the Testament of Levi. Listened, and browsed the texts. He got a email from John E. WordSlinger saying, ’I ordered a copy of ‘Starkill’ from Createspace.com and the interior was upside down. Not good at all, chaos has hit the veins of that company. Can I quote Fannon Holland, _Dumb!”

Not good at all. Redd replied.

The Queen replied back, No, and watch Moses. Andy debated to do it anyway, and as he and Redd knew, as their Grandfathers told them, America will fall in their life time, and in South Africa, maybe the people do not want a modern world, shall so, then leave them be.” Because God, Time, and Death is supreme in the end. They want to stay primitive, and true.

They all wanted to go back to sleep, and Boet super-charged them awake again, “Listen, we have work to do, listen, and read the ‘Ode of the Mantle’ by Al Burda.

Andy began to bark his cursive to paper, his and his Poetry in calligraphy.

MY EVE TOO WRAPPED UP TH’SERPENT

My Eve was a child, unlike Gods’ first

My Eve be in pain, and angry on this earth

My Eve told me, Never leave me

My Eve has affection for me, a love worth

My Eve has strength to unwrap

My Eve has God in her skullcap

My Eve like me, a Poet scribe

My Eve knows my anchorless tribe frap

My Eve childless although full of love

My Eve unlike me hasn’t found her dove

My Eve knows what scorn be and filth

My Eve knows th’tilth, and spilth glove

My Eve appreciates how Saint Peter died

My Eve felt, and fears my soul stride

My Eve silenced, th’banquet blinds her eyes

My Eve listens for th’Serpent slip, my war bride

My Eve shall walk with me back into th’garden pride

“As you spoke Andy, you are wide awake.” Boet said.

“Shall I say, let the snake pit pyrate that Poem.” Andy said. “Moses we are going to put you up front, and center, and each one of us are going to tackle things one at a time, and on offense, the sacred alphabet shall get us everywhere we need to go. Get that. The political and religious metamorphosis of perpetual slavery since 1493 shall stop, and back fire on those that oppose. Poets’ land shall be returned. Poets pillars shall be erected, engraved with Angelic arms, the Poets allies. ‘The Poets Found You’ shall be the new norm. The Alphabet, whet wit, shall regain power, and dismantle exploration, militarizes, missionaries, and evil science aka return the burden, Poet fold, taking back minds and space. We are not scared, so if you have to go back to your seat.”

Andy, Imam Busiri dealt with others he loved ill-tempers too. Redd said, Also held onto divine Love, and he see saw’d in his dreams too.

“That’s great, because as you know we live in already seen, every nanno second.” Andy replied. “Every letter be our favorite letter in all remotes times, and I love that all. Let me take a breath before I listen anymore.”

Moses sat, went tumia, and spoke when he was spoken to.

Boet was feeling the Iron/Steel in Redd and Andy now, for the first time. He felt the trains’ multi-colors, and felt the envious against them.

“What did Prophet Muhammad prophesize?” Andy asked. “The story of Joseph and his brothers.”

“Yes.” Mathias replied.

Nice guess. Redd replied.

“Thanks, a tummy wummy hunch Redd, you know us. Think sych stuff tough.” Andy replied. “Miracles are miracles, WordSlinger be a living miracle. The things he goes through, and those he loves does not see it, and those witnesses don’t even say a thing as of yet.”

“He’s known as a one man Poet Army kicking Poetry’s tail.” Boet replied.

“On the importance of research, fieldwork, and the consideration of available versions and alternative styles of presentation in the study of Poetry, and Swahili Poetry.” Andy spoke, “I want to make this clear, even when I was young I was told never mix religion with art, and I have to call H-Crap, there’s no way around it, everything is rigged from above, skys above, not H-crap, only the great heart weigher be, so it goes like this politics and religions can’t be hid, and politics and religion can not hide us, Poetry and history.”

Andy thought about shut-eye growth, to protect memory, languages, health, the infinite number of secrets and this was like deciphering the thoughts of a Mountain Lion. In todays time reality was threatening, so to Andy real monsters were at large when awake not in dream time. This is sad and no mystery.

“The National Museum of Kenya has the manuscripts of Poet Bwana Zahidi Mngumi.” Boet said, “Andy they have Donkey races, we have to go to Lamu Island.”

“Word!, both places.” Andy replied.

“Reading about this in On the Poetics of the Utendi: A Critical Edition of the Nineteenth-century By Clarissa Vierke.” Boet replied. “Looking for the Poem, Utenzi wa Shufaka, Swahili, ‘Poem of Mercifulness’, and reading here, sad to say, is true today, it’s about humans losing their compassion and become obsessed with their physical well-being and material wealth. The Poem is deep and divine.”

Andy looked at Redd, tele-thought, We did not make to these three islands, yet.

“Can not find it, not good.” Boet said, “Original title be, ′Chuo cha Utenzi’ and only manuscript is at the The Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft aka German Oriental Society. Yes, another Poet, Abdilatif Abdalla, Mnazi: Vuta N’kuvute is one of the collections of Poems Sauti ya Dhiki he composed while serving a prison term for sedition during the Jomo Kenyatta regime in post-independence Kenya. ‘Mnazi: Vuta N’Kuvute’ Coconut Tree: Pull and I Pull You.”

Turn it up Boet. Redd stated.

Andy laughed, and said, “Love these Donkey races, Jackie Jackie wants the dirt tracky, ya ya. We win then we free them from this slavery too, Ha ha, love it., How do you feel Redd?”

HA ha Ha ha, like a sentence, about that, Ha ha ha ha. Redd replied.

“I can not find, any of these Poems, but the plot for ‘Chuo cha Utenzi’ aka Utenzi wa Shufaka, ‘Poem of Mercifulness’ be about the angels Gabriel and Michael, and they had an argument. Both agreed that in the distant past humans were kind and compassionate towards each other. However, while Gabriel held that this was still true, Michael argued that humans had lost the quality of compassion. To settle the dispute, they agreed to carry out a test.” After a brief minute, “Poet Muyaka bin Haji I will try next.”

Andy studied film wisdom.

“All I could find was his Poem, ‘Of Disillusionment’ Boet said, “A sad poem, of heartbreak.”

Boet I found Poet Mwalina Sikjua, and nothing also. Redd added. It is possible the heavens have hid these works of Poetry.

“Wow, I found info on Ibrahim Noor Shariffs, a professor of Kiswahili language and literature.” Boet said, “Loading now. He exposes how the colonial and the rest have inflicted on all Muslims all kinds of sin and weakness. That’s about it.”

“Moses, we are going to send for a helicopter, and fly you to Lamu Island, so go get your serpent staff and stuff.” Andy said.

“What are you serious?” Moses replied.

“No, tooting this train horn because it sounds good.” Andy replied.

Everyone laughed.

“All jokes aside, would be nice to have some coconuts for us, for our heads aka coconuts.” Andy replied. “Moses, seems I too have western aggresion, and believe me, many western Poets can’t even handle it, Ha ha. They know I am not playing around, call the Franklin Kentucky Library ask about pc usage there from me, when I first started online that is, as many modern Poets do online, Ha ha... th’ Jingle -n- th’Jangle equals the Prangle.”

Boet spoke, “Okay I found these folk, Engelbert Mveng and Meinrad Hebga, and Meinrad was a philosopher, anthropologist, theologian, exorcist and was inflexibly a thinker of properly African subjectivation. He says, “Every writer, every creator is a shadow. As soon as we write it, the shadow is first compared to the body. Also he says, I feel my soul a great sadness. I wonder what is the role of Negroes in creation, and what is their destiny?′ Engelbert Mveng was a Poet and a Jesuit priest Cameroonian, author in the fields of art, the history, anthropology and theology. They both wanted to make sure African elements were in all colonization, also Christianization of the pagan civilization of Roman Africa.”

“Heavy stuff right there.” Mathias said.

“More,” Boet added, “Traditional African art is the creative work of Negro-African genius; Through this work, man expresses his vision of the world, his vision of man and his conception of God. Art is lived and expressed in music, dance, and poetry. In addition, art is a cosmological, anthropological and liturgical language. As a liturgical language, art is “the expression of the cosmic celebration, of the divine mysteries by man in his strictly priestly function. Also he strove to combine liturgy and traditional African arts as a way to illustrate a “theology of life,” one which promotes the ultimate triumph of life over all forms of death. This is cool, He goes on to say that culture is a “dynamic reality” that must not be defined by one period of its history, because it is always flexing and changing in the present.”

Note that one of the Congress of Black Writers and Artists events was held in Rome, time trap 1959. Redd stated.

“I like what he says here,” Boet recited, “I wanted African art to take its place in modern life, in architecture, in clothing, in the Church, in prayer, because its absence would mean our absence, the definitive annihilation of Africa from the depths. If I have not succeeded, at least some works will survive, and the art will have allowed me to enter into dialogue with the rest of the world.”

“Welcome aboard the Poetry E Train Engelbert Mveng.” Andy said, “Ya Ya,” and Andy laughed, “Check this out, and once again Poets, as we said, you are being punked out, before I say this, my intuition told me this in 1999, 2008, and 2015, Luis Buñuel in his “A Statement” via 1960 says, ‘Mystery is a basic element of all works of art. It is generally lacking on the screen. Writers, directors and producers take good care in avoiding anything that may upset us. They keep the marvelous window on the liberating world of poetry shut.’ Ya hear that. Been fifty eight years now. God Bless, me love my career. Hi there Reader-Spectator I am staring at you, Ha ha ha.”

“I will return, I am going to get us some bread.” Mathias said.

Hurry back we are making the world better. Redd replied.

“I know, our secret is far from our chests Redd.” Mathias replied.

“Love this.” Andy said, “You have to begin to lose your memory, if only in bits and pieces, to realize that memory is what makes our lives. Life without memory is no life at all... Our memory is our coherence, our reason, our feeling, even our action. Without it we are nothing. Yes, Luis Bunuel.”

Kipoetry, Kispoetry to emphasize Poetry. Redd said, and laughed, I am learning Swahili, while awake not asleep. Kuja, come, juu, on the Ushairi Reli, Poetry Train.

“Nice.” Boet replied. “The name Shuara means Poets, elima, useful knowledge. Let’s listen to the Surat Ash-Shu’ara meaning the Poets.” And they did as they railed aka reli’d to Nairobi. Andy wrote down we are messengers. Moses watched him delegently. Redd kicked up his feet on another seat. Mathias returned with bread, and more watermelon juice laced with lemon juice. As Pharaoh, many think Poets are mad, Andy jotted down. Boet gathered more wisdom.

“A slight bit before we get to Nairobi.” Mathias said.

“If all else succeeds gents, we could become tombstone engravers too, under the celestial lights.” Andy said. “The Poet Imam al-Busiri did, well, oh the torments of such, greatness.”

Everyone laughed.

You are so generous Andy like he. Redd added, and laughed.

“Oh yes, my huge spectrum of emotions, the grand great capacity.” Andy replied.

“The Heavens be raising our rank and station, furthermore sending us peace.” Boet said.

Andy and Redd thought about their visions from day one of the Poetry Train.

A police car was racing the Madaraka Express that escorted the Poetry Train to Nairobi. A helicopter followed the train.

“Look.” Moses said.

They all laughed, and said in sych. “We told you so.”

The Nairobi South Station or the Nairobi Terminus looked like a low rider pyramid, or a cut to the ankle pyramid to Andy and Redd from the distance they were railing, and the train was on time, regardless of the rains. The evening sunshine too looked as though was on time, in time to dry up the mud. As the powers that be are trying to do, to dry up histories mud. Dry it up so no one learns from it, so anyone of everyone could decipher any kind of corruption, the machination clans. To Redd and Andy the deeds and acts were because of the faithless of all the beauties of life. Thank the Heavens for the arts, Poets and scribes. Things get in bad shape if things were not written down, and recorded, not only that if things were not read and known aka fully understood. Untold numbers of unknown tales. True tales. Like data of medical records of importance, millions of lives could be saved if all learned, all pages of the ages. As Redd and Andy knew there were gaps in time, all sorts of gaps, good and bad. Redd and Andy, and now Boet and the rest of the crew in their lives were giving all to the effort to create an A in their lifetimes. They also knew what was dragging the Poetry Train wagon, survival for survival in survival was lagging and dragging the wagon. Their work was tough, like gathering the goodies while in a tornado storm, slow motion in fast motion.

Everyone in the carriage were gathering their belongings as the train geared low to the station. They looked around, and everyone on the train looked happy. Mathias too, because he had a surprises for them, so did the land, mud from the rains were everywhere, but that did not stop the beauty of this beautiful train station. The crew loved all the other passengers, all walks of life, business folk, tribal folk, civilian folk, and military folk, and even the unknown folk. Andy and Redd remembered so many people as they got on or off the train. They also recalled mud from the U.S. and Canada.

The train station had tight-tight security, and that impressed them along with the station itself. Marble, glass, stainless steel and digital electronic tech, big electronic boards of information televisions. The stations in the U.S. were seriously primitive compared to this station. The ticket lines had scanning of the QR code eyes. In fact, it was clearly written above the scanner “Please scan the ticket,” As they went to get their luggage similar to the methods at air ports. Mathias revealed his first secret.

Andy laughed, and said, “I wonder if they have a postage stamp machine here.”

“China alone can build up the newly world.” Mathias said, and laughed. “Very beautiful here and modernized train terminus, looks like an airport, much much better than those international airports in the Eastern Europe. This could be a landmark and national gate for the country in the coming years. We have to go to the V.I.P. Room, and wait on Uber.”

Many people were filming the station with their phones. Outside to the entrance passengers piled into buses, and waited on cars.

“Africa be rising, cheers from Chinese people!” Moses stated. “Countries around the world should have more cooperation like this, instead of wars.”

“While we wait on an Uber driver, my first secret to you all are, we will stay at a Hotel called Giraffe Manor, a paradise on earth. It was built in 1932 and was modeled on a Scottish hunting lodge. The famous Rothschild’s Giraffes will great us in the morning, and eat breakfast with us.”

Nice everyone said in sync.

Boet began right away looking for Giraffe Poems. “What a dream. If we can respect each other and pull technologies together to get animals fed and populate the earth right next to humans.”

“And my gentlemen friends.” Mathias said, “An Uber driver is here. The country side is for all of your senses as we arrive, take in the sunset.”

I love these centers, preserving animals for all next generations. Redd said as they got out of the van at the Giraffe Manor. I love the iron Giraffe on the entrance gate, cool.

“Great. I hoped you all would.” Mathias replied. “Welcome to the Giraffe grand manor hotel.”

Boet was in awe, and Andy deeply in awe. Andy imagined Poets riding these beautiful animals as different kind of cowboys in the morning. Moses was in shock, and had no clue as to what he got himself into.

It has been a long time since these men with pens slept in a non moving bed it seemed, their last besides Moses was in their entrance in South Africa. Before bed they all talked about Baron Maurice de Rothschild who explored Ethiopia and East Africa, leading to the publication of a detailed atlas and listing of the spiders and insects of the region and his scientific papers included detailed works on the sub-species of Giraffes and Okapis. There Giraffes are named after him, and they are also known as the Baringo Giraffe, from the Baringo Lake in Kenya.

They agreed that they were similar as Maurice because he loved mysterious animals, like Andy, and the Poetry Train crew loved mysterious Poets. Mysterious was the dawn, each of them had a dreamless night.

The hotel shined old school English indeed. Andy sat in his tub calling Redd on a old school land line, he was fully tickled blue. Redd was in awe because they had Swahili fish-cabobs on the hotels menu. Mathias was down stairs at a table, the aka famous photo spot where the windows were wide open, and he was feeding Lynn, and Daisy the Giraffes. Boet and Moses were playing checkers with a grand board with carved wooden Giraffes. Other guests were in awe too, pictures and video tasks were waking everyone up.

Andy and Redd looked out their window, and talked about Lake Baringo and many decades ago, this land was the home of the Rothschild’s Giraffe. Because of poaching and conflict, Giraffes have disappeared from that area of Kenya for about seventy years, and thank the heavens for this place and the Ruko Conservancy, because they were brought back Giraffes to their land.

“Africa be, truly the Garden of Eden.” Andy said.

Giraffes here are around people but are also in their natural habitat where they belong. Redd said, Way better than a zoo!

“They were hunted for their tails for good luck charms, sewing thread, and fly swatters.” Andy said, “I’ll tell you what, grrr.”

They need our consideration at this time. Redd said.

“Time be running out.” Andy said.

Two Giraffes out of the twelve here were kissing or head butting gently. Andy and Redd thought about this silent extinction. They are an endangered species, and the world needs to pay attention, to the six hundred vital left in the world.

Andy and Redd met the crew for breakfast, and Andy told them right away as he seated. “Thanks Boet for the links. New born Giraffes should be named after world wide Poets who wrote Poems about Giraffes. Poets- Shang Qin, Lucie Brock-Broido, Bryony Littlefair, Mr. R, Kimiko Hahn, Annelyse Gelman, Auden Lincoln-Vogel, Patricia Walter, Ron Padgett, Martín Camps, Judith Beveridge, Fay Zwicky, Matt Hart, Elaine Magliaro, Geoffrey Lapage, Mary Ann Hoberman, Christopher Kempf, Isaac McLellan, Thomas Hood, Juan Felipe Herrera, Jessy Randall, Siren Sinyx, Shel Silverstein, Jane Medved, Wayne Stubbs, EELoura, Marc Algernon, Liz Brown Lee, Gary H. Hess, Nikolay Gumilyov, Linda A. Copp, Michelle Dains, Brenda Wilson, Jessica Johnson, Jason Crane, Katherine Clark January, Edna Wyley, Courtney, Elizabeth Steinglass, Kunal Duggal, Dale Peterson, Stanisław Grochowiak, Matthew Whoskin, Amalia, Ruth Gilmore Ingulsrud, and John E. WordSlinger.

“I agree Andy, that would be great.” Boet replied.

Everyone should put out their necks for these animals. Redd replied.

“Love what Matt Hart says about his Poem, ’The poem had to end with factual truth or something akin to it, which is always the enemy of the poem and the poet.”

Word!

The soulful creatures came through Redd and Andys’ window.

So the key to a Giraffes heart is pellets. Redd stated.

Andy laughed, and said, “He looks like me when I eat doesn’t he?”

Indeed my long neck friend. Redd replied, and laughed.

“Messy though like us too, not.” Andy replied to “Daisy and Lynn,” as he fed them, “We are the good of mankind, and we are no threat to you all.”

“The manor was built in 1932 by Sir David Duncan of the Mackintosh family, famous for Mackintosh toffee.” Mathais said, “My room is on the west side with a view of Ngong Hills, and I believe Boet and Moses had the south side view of Mt. Kilimanjaro.”

“Yes.” Boet replied.

“The Sanctuary was created by Jock Leslie Melville, and his American wife Betty, a conservationist, bought it in 1974 as their residence. Then they bought an additional sisty acres. The acclaimed wildlife photographer, Peter Beard then gifted them forty acres of his hog ranch, bringing the total acreage to one hundred and fifteen. The Melville’s heard Giraffes were facing extinction due to loss of habitat. Being conservationists, they brought a baby Rothschild giraffe they named Daisy to the manor. They got another one, given the moniker Marlon, after Marlon Brando donated part of their land to the African Fund for Endangered Wildlife. They built the center on this land allowing Kenyan school children to feed the Giraffes up close as they learn. They changed it to a hotel.”

Andy listened, and took notes for a Poem.

Boet and Moses talked about the photographer Peter Beard, and his work, his warnings of sound and fury, propaganda distractions, etc &c. We need agents of mortality he says. The human race is deadly. Think about horror.

After breakfast the Poetry Train crew walked with the Giraffes, and talked about much, and the Giraffes ears twitched, and lowered their heads to listen in on the crew. The Giraffes facial expressions were priceless and full of soul. Fearless. Godful. Revealing their emotional, moral and intellectual lives. They walked in synchrony as do the crew.

They all had a bag of pellets to feed them as they talked, and walked.

“Andy we love your wrath for math, here be fuel for you.” Boet said, “Mathematicians, Giraffe hunters by Barry Mazur.”

They all sat down in the grass, and a can of Sandihands whoop ass was about to be opened. Andy slung open the book, Circles Disturbed: The Interplay of Mathematics and Narrative, edited by Apostolos K. Doxiadēs, Barry Mazur.

“Hmm, screw the cake and icing, dismantle the oven, ya ya that’s earth lovin’.” Andy said by instinct.

“Deep in the field we sit, we know the flattened things, most of humanity careless aka do not give a H-crap shit.” Andy rolled on. “We have done a lot of mental mountain climbing, and never needed to, because, as we know the answer be in us, and right in front of us. Bare handed literature experts that’s what we are. Come, and slew us. Me, I have always sensed the evil of Roman soldier like evil bastards. Poets R Us, jack bread. Shall we eat you cowards mentally alive. To heaven with handing intelligence to the philosophers, hand it all over to the Poets, idiots. Idiots.com stop reading, and watching salacious media, fools, and everyone and thing over, fortification sick people. Okay problem animals, so who be killing off problem humans? Huh? Human head aka mind trophy hunting coming up. Love scientists better step it up QUICK! Godless. Let me disturb you, all of your shapes. Let me return you some scornship, with my penmanship.”

Maybe we need horned shaped hair dos, and artificial Giraffe fabric capes, or vests. Redd suggested, La mode à la girafe. Love these gentle giants.

“We must join their guardian watchers worldwide.” Boet said.

“You all are glorious as Peacocks.” Moses stated.

Thanks.

“Charming, yes Boet we are lovely ones.” Andy replied. “Check out our seductive eyes and lashes, Poetry slashes. Oh ya, we like the dangerous foot paths Danger.inc, oh ya ya.”

Redd laughed, Poetry be our protective raincoat.

Everyone laughed, and be in positivity.

“I am looking for art works of Antoine-Louis Barye, and Nicolas Hüet.” Boet said, laying in the grass similar to a resting Giraffe.

Moses was taking elaborate notes.

“Antoine-Louis Barye was an animalier, ew that’s sounds so cool, and also an artist specializing in the depiction of animals.” Boet said. “He read the scholarly literature on zoology and natural history, furthermore he was a print maker.”

“I feel us turning bronze already gents.” Andy said with confidence.

Nice, unlike the plaster caster junk.com around us, word. Redd added.

“You two went to your own bloodversity I know-know for a fact.” Mathias said, and laughed.

“Nice, a lead to Bernard-Germain-Étienne de La Ville-sur-Illon and his Comte de Lacépède, so much also lead to wisdom on the age of printing in times of warfare.” Boet added.

“Mathias ask them if we can sleep out here in sleeping bags with the Giraffes please.” Andy asked.

“Sure, why not.” Mathias laughed, and went to ask.

“Cool.” Boet said. “Artist Nicolas Hüet may have been the first to paint a Giraffe.”

“Oh the days of human zooz, maybe talvez we round up colors- trophy hunters, and create a bastard- bitch human zoo and circus, we can do it in artZ, ya ya.” Andy said, “Wussy generation advised, hey-hey just revealing, the stains of humanity. Touché!”

The low, humans can go! Redd added.

“Call this a Poet texthibition!” Boet said. “I agree in literary art, if have to know about this ugly history, then we can do a reversal, tell and show, and sense of the other to your brother and sister.”

“Fascinating and terrifying at the same time.” Moses said.

“People are still in other forms as of then of how millions of westerners were, and are manipulated into a belief in the inequality of races.” Andy added. “Our sensourship penmanship.”

Evil Scientists back then use to write Poetry, Good God we need to read. Redd added.

“We understand the common gifts of heaven.” Boet said. “We are literary wrathronauts, Ha ha love it.”

I am glued to Richard Holmes’ The Age of Wonder, and he too keyed on memory. Redd added. The romantic era of Poets first sensed the beauty and terror of science. We are dealing, and ending it.

“Great news, affirmative.” Mathais said. “A willing servant shall be with us soon.”

Moses recited, “ Anna Barbaulds’ ‘The Mouses’ Petition’

O hear a pensive prisoner’s prayer,

For liberty that sighs;

And never let thine heart be shut

Against the wretch’s cries!

For here forlorn and sad I sit,

Within the wiry grate;

And tremble at the’ approaching morn,

Which brings impending fate.

If e’er thy breast with freedom glowed,

And spurned a tyrant’s chain,

Let not thy strong oppressive force

A free-born mouse detain!

O do not stain with guiltless blood

Thy hospitable hearth!

Nor triumph that thy wiles betrayed

A prize so little worth.

The scattered gleanings of a feast

My frugal meals supply;

But if thine unrelenting heart

That slender boon deny,--

The cheerful light, the vital air,

Are blessings widely given;

Let Nature’s commoners enjoy

The common gifts of Heaven.

The well-taught philosophic mind

To all compassion gives;

Casts round the world an equal eye,

And feels for all that lives.

If mind,--as ancient sages taught,--

A never dying flame,

Still shifts through matter’s varying forms,

In every form the same;

Beware, lest in the worm you crush,

A brother’s soul you find;

And tremble lest thy luckless hand

Dislodge a kindred mind.

Or, if this transient gleam of day

Be all of life we share,

Let pity plead within thy breast

That little all to spare.

So may thy hospitable board

With health and peace be crowned;

And every charm of heartfelt ease

Beneath thy roof be found.

So when destruction lurks unseen,

Which men, like mice, may share,

May some kind angel clear thy path,

And break the hidden snare.

Boet applauded, and spoke, “Found in the trap where he had been confined all night by Dr. Priestley, for the sake of making experiments with different kinds of air.”

“I have invented happiness gas.” Andy proclaimed. “Wharthogz, Richard Holmes be on to us, we are re-imagining the world with Axel F skills, God Bless, love this life.”

HA ha, where are the snares to shattare? Redd asked.

“Gents, let us break from this evil human deeds, and embrace the Giraffes, and plant the moments seeds.” Andy said.

“We must recall this when we get to Namibia.” Boet said, and noted.

“Also these evil humans, I shall now call Commodi, a diseased kind dating back to late second century A.D.” Andy declared. “Commodus was complete opposite to his father and mother. Learnt and lived by nothing with which they taught.”

“We need more material for laughter.” Mathias proclaimed. “We have to learn from Horace aka Quintus Horatius Flaccus. If the audience is more attentive to the spectacle on stage, the costumes and sets, than to the words of the author, then we have a problem.”

“Yes Mathias.” Andy replied, “He said, For me the good playwright Poet is like a marvelous high-wire acrobat who, walking on air, can scare me to death, and then momentarily calm me down, and then scare me to death all over again.”

“Beware of rope dancers, hoy,” Boet said.

Everyone laughed as they fed the Giraffes pellets.

Boet spoke again, “Horace says, ’Whether a painter or Poet, the artist should be consistent and not represent the impossible, compositions that violate the laws of nature just as an ornamental digression disrupts the rules of art.”

“Ropers of any kind.” Andy replied. “Speaking of that, I’ll be back, I’ll see if I can find one in the manor, because I want to refresh all my knots I know. Tight ropers, like my roofing days, ridge and edge walking finesse.”

That’s my man, Andy. Redd proclaimed.

As Andy went to their room on the second floor of the manor he thought, ‘We cause the spots on the Giraffes, yes, I said we cause them. They are telling us something. So let’s knot the spots.’ Andy looked for a rope of some kind, then recalled his extra pair of boot strings, so he got them from his suitcase, and pocketed them. The window was opened, and Daisy one of the Giraffes was there, and wanted to greet herself. Andy smiled ear to ear, grabbed a bag of pellets, and he fed her while he petted her.

Andy spoke gently to her, “Here, there’s no digital billboards. Some folk be not thinking, saying, don’t write this stuff down. They like to tattoo, any way any who. Me thought one day. We and this Poetry Train, shall have Tall credit, credits. Coming up. Daisy, tell me why it rains. You are very tall, very beautiful, and pleasing. Don’t be stubborn like me, lovely one. Poetry be sweet as a honeycomb.

Daisy I am a book worm. Worming my head through page rafters, so Daisy never stick your head in roofs, holes, and be aware of humanity-made traps, although Daisy, putting your neck through time gaps be-be grandiose, similar to a tortoise, interesting isn’t it. Love your stride. Your tongue be slightly trippy, although cool. Tell me about your fury horns. Ossicones they call them, sounds cool right? Oh ya, me love Poetry catacombs. No one knows why, maybe it’s for the Birds who perch on your neck, Poets are like Birds and Trees too keep in mind, and over long long times your neck grew in spurts. I sense you buck too, thrash and thresh. You maybe like me, loves the real, the holes of the real, and we maybe the same sticking our heads into mysteries. You are a time travelling Giraffe, yes yes. Finding ourselves never lost in symbols. Larger views. I want to ride you Daisy, and we stand tall, and not run.”

Daisy listened, and ate as Andy fed her. “I have fallen in love daisy with a Poet in America. Are you the mother of the Symbolic world? Yes, me want to be married, and to have a daughter. Only God who writes in the villa of heaven knows, willingly the day to bring this love I hold.”

Daisy began to sing, flute like sounds, a beautiful melody. Other sounds could be heard too. One had to be a Super Poet to hear this humming. It was as though the sound of the realm or dimension within ours.

“I know I have blood like you, pumping blood from a true heart, far up to the heavens.” Andy added. “Wild, and good at heart.”

Daisy arose her head, and she slowly backed out of the window, signaling “Come outside, come back to where, my family and your friends be.”

Andy ran down the stairs, around back, and Andy recited a Poem he been saying in his brain to Daisy as they walked back to the camp. As Andy Poetry sung to her, she swayed her head to and fro, as onward forward, and Charlie would love to see this.

POETS WHO MAKE GIRAFFIC NOISE

Earth will not be mellow,

when there’s no more of this kind of yellow-

There be, for sure a silent extinction,

And only so many Poets making friction

This be a serious tragedy so very TRAG

Good-luck bracelets, fly whisks, and thread

for sewing or stringing beads have led people

to kill you, such an evil drag for us all Giraffe

The glass be about empty down from half

There are two f’s spelled in Giraffe for a reason

It be, to keep them alive, arrange a mating season

There are white Giraffes and spotted Giraffes

And Poetry of blue, red and many more paths

Poets have taken for this beautiful animal shakin’

Salvador Dali painted them on fire, inspiring desire

Once again Giraffomania needs to be at start

Once again the Giraffe making a mark in art

Please all world cultures cause a sensation

Giraffes, Giraffes two for every nation

Do it on their and your loving behalf

So their no longer reduced to photographs

Cameleopards and Poetraffes

Enhance, dance with the craft

La mode à la Giraffe

Back back back back

Up Up Up,

Stand tall, stand tall all through time!

Symbolic Tough!

Andy returned with a string, and said, “Again, a Billy Pawn proverb, If you don’t know how to tie a knot, tie it a lot.”

Upon return a new face was sitting down with the crew, and it was a servant from Giraffe manor. Andy petted Daisy. He sat down, and listened to the wisdom conversation about African animal conservations with the crew, furthermore environmental education, and the four species of the Giraffes.

Andy ear geared in, and the sky was like a time lapse, grasping him, and them into the beautiful Kenya dusk. The man spoke about Uganda and their work with Giraffes there too, and Andy stared at the Giraffes, and listened to them hum. What were they humming to humanity about and for? There was something powerful about this, deeply. Andy wanted to cry, because Africas’ beauty was that beautiful, a happy cry. He was at one of his callings since a little boy. Thank you Grandpa, Andy said in his heart and mind. His grandfather introduced him to the animal kingdom, and miniture plastic animal toys.

“These Giraffes reach out to us, and maybe Poetry, look at it like the wise, and suffering people reaching out to Poetry. Doctors are starting to learn this too, the painless pathway. This brings hope. Poetry breaks the law of silence. Andy recalled when he was hospitalized, and his Dr. brought him animal magizines, and this indeed helped with his healing. True Healers use Poetry. Poetry and Animals are underlying gifts to those you sense with all.

The wisdom conversations continued about African animal conservations with the crew, furthermore environmental education, and the four species of the Giraffes while Andy used the art of listening, and deeply he listened while he remembered, and implemented knots he has learned before with a boot string.

“Seven countries have failed to save the Giraffe.” Mathias said.

Boet was in contact with Dr, Julian Fennessy from GiraffeConservation.org, and told him about all of the Poems and Poets who wrote about Giraffes, and something was in the works in their minds to help, the Poetry Train crew was thinking, and they also thought about Paul Oxton and Wild Heart Wildlife Foundation. They thought, chatted and became tired. Each one slept deep and good until sunrise. Each one cared a lot about animals.

The Giraffes took turns, and watched the crew as they slept.

Andy, and Redd knew contrast, hard core contrast, but Boet was new at dreaming hardcore symbolism, and Poetry dimensions via dreams.

Deep sleep brought on a comparison dream, to be.

Food and trinkets were thrown at the Poetry Train crew in their cage, next to another cage of men. They were all the rare, the curious, the strange. The Crew also shown them light. They shown them out. Poetlisation.

From the start of this lucid ordeal, the crew were at a fair in Magic City. A traveling troupe in a village in the middle of a Safari Park and go in Nantes. They enjoyed the dirt road very much. Wildebeest were everywhere. A Baboon walked on by. A Family of Giraffe crossed their path. They came upon a Loire river. A steamboat rolled through many Hippopotamus. Some Bushmen came up to them, and asked to go to St. Louis, and wanted to ride a railroad train. Their teeth scared the daylights out of the crew. The teeth all came to a sharp point, looked filed, and what was why and what of for being at that? Their eyes shown for sure the sad side of humanity. They warned the crew of snakes. Also that animals love activity they said, ‘It was good to talk to animals.’ They spoke of animals loving you, all, they will listen. They all agreed that a diverse acknowledgement of being diverse was the best way to peace. Diverse be what Humanity should talk about, diversity, and eliminate the order of skin differences. This too, as the crew listen, the wind around them too, began to speak. All when traveling it is best not to talk about ones home land. They did speak of this, not knowing Showmen were at large, looking for exotic humans for their human zoos, and it was they who captured the crew for, money, anthropologists and scientists whom were the main audiences worldwide for these Human Zooz...

The Poetry Train crew shared this nightmare and were Poet-napped. Experiencing scientific racism. Despite all of this the thought about Scratch came to them, not only that. Why are people stealing, Redd and Andys’ idea? People ask why go to Africa, why a Mountain Lion, the answer was simple symbols, reading, listening, loving Poetry and History, and the crew laughed inside because, dumb was dumb, and Hey, cool was cool, at least Scratch was not with them in this dream or was he, watching in hiding?

Some of these evil men talked about cat tracks. The crew knew this was not science, it was full blown evil. Oxen wagons came up the road. Their leader was famous, a tight rope walker, and this was good, they just learned this too. Meet, William Hunt alias Guillermo Farini. One wagon carried him, and some men, and another a dead Giraffe. William Hunt got down from the wagon, came up to them in the cage, and recited a slice of his Poem, ‘The Lost City’

A half-buried ruin – a huge wreck of stones,
On a lone and desolate spot,
A temple – or a tomb for human bones,
Left by men to decay and rot.

Rude sculptured blocks from the red sand project,
And shapeless uncouth stones appear,
Some great man’s ashes designed to protect,
Buried many a thousand year.

A relic, may be, of a glorious past,
A city once grand and sublime,
Destroyed by earthquake, defaced by the blast,
Swept away by the hand of time.

The Bushmen in a cage next to them keened in on this, very keenly. Clicko, aka Franz Taibosh was in the cage next to them, and Andy tele-thought, ‘a 5 point Grand slam coming up... Bringing the Ghost home- period.’

Andy looked at this SOB, and said, “Before he well, began to buck, “Diversity be th’Wind, and I love it when th’Wind wraps all, and any flag around it’s pole it be hung on. It shows th’Pole be Mightier than th’Flag, Keep on keeping on. Thank you Mighty Wind.”

Andy looked at Redd with that Good God Redd, Grrr look, and looked at his finger nails, and they grew before their eyes. Andy looked at the crew, and the other men in their cage and said, “Some tuned some not, synchronicity, and divine callings be a pain in the rear for evil people.” Andy laughed, and said, “Speaking for myself, I am a demolition derby, stock car, indy, 4 wheel drive Poet Donkey, 18 wheeling killer, aka Super Ghost Poet, in God right TUNED... Keep on dragging Truth and Poetries wagons see who and what gets spooned. None of you fools can take my soul or innocence. Believe me I can see through skin, and color, dig?”

A slight breath, and Andy whispered, “ You Can Not Tame The Irish, with a splash of Wappello, get that jingle jangle? So go back to your Racist Momma and Daddy, and tell them Andy told them so, a Mouth of the Babes, ya ya.”

Redd laughed, and said, “They like that, analytics. Anal they be, numbers, what a joke.”

“The Poetry arena world wide be real, and those currently in it, well, are doing it to it.” Boet said, and laughed.

“See the silent wannabes learn from the neo masters.” Andy replied as he looked at these Human killers, and, “We love our neighbhors, yes them in that cage next to us, and I also love your nose, snout, all that. Love to hang your noses. No, sell them, yep, like ivory. Thou, thousands, sands, Sandihands me name. Awe did I rub you raw? Deal with it baby, deal with it. I am spunky in here. You do know you all are garbage in Gods eyes, if not, now you know.”

The Twigas aka Giraffes awoke the Poetry Train crew with their humming, and they were standing over them. The Twigas took turns all night, watched over each other, and the Poetry Train crew.

“Good Morning gents, are you ready to walk to the Grogan MacMillan Manor House?” Mathias said, and this was his second surprise for them to go the Manor House known as ‘Kenya’s Churchill’ and nicknamed ‘Bwana Chui,’ the Leopard by the Kikuyu. The home of Ewart Scott Grogan. Andy and Redd had a dream of him in Tanzania. Ewart Scott Grogan crossed Africa for love.

As they awoke the Giraffes were happy too. Little by little they shook off the nightmare they had, and it was easy with the beautiful animals to good the morning with them. As they said good bye to the staff at Giraffe Manor, and gratitude’s, they walked, and talked about the people saving Kenyas libraries. Publisher Angela Wachuka and author/Poet Wanjiru Koinange, who is also project manager from badilishapoetry.com, and BookBunk.org. The crew loved that.

Andy admired that the sidewalks and streets had the same color, a dark brown. On their way they took a tour of the McMillan Memorial Library. The gates, and masonry Lions caught their attention as they got closer to this 1931 beautiful building that was a neo-classical design with towering granite-clad columns dominating the facade and a grand white marble trapezoidal stairway leading up to the portico. As they went in people were on computers, reading and writing. They asked to see the archive room, and there is where they found some awe in awesomeness. A treasure to gander and ponder. The library was built by and on true love between William Northrup McMillan and Lady Lucie McMillan, and Andy loved that. They dreamed of them too. They looked around for Poetry and Railway books. As they sat at one of these past times table and chairs Andy said, “So no one has created a Poets Illustrated magazine?”

Everyone laughed.

As they read some cool antique books, Andy made videos for Poets, about Giraffes and Rhinos. Clicko, aka Franz Taibosh: The Wild Dancing Bushman was on all of their minds. Andy began to tie knots with his string, and thinking about memory, the mother of wisdom. He spoke low, “Poets are a tribe, maybe should be a gang, maybe should be a swat team, maybe maybe.” He looked around, and said, “Thinking of filmmaker Stan Brakhages’ wisdom, ’Imagine a world alive with incomprehensible objects and shimmering with an endless variety of movement and innumerable gradations of color. Imagine a world before the “beginning was the word.”

Stan Brakhage, adventure in perception. The act of seeing itself. Redd said, Blend that with Jiddu Krishnamurtis’ art of listening. A duel act.

Moses, and Mathias listened, and Boet spoke, “Love this right here, Brakhage says, ‘The eyes are always moving, scanning in response to all visual stimuli; vision never stops: the eyes see phosphenes when closed and dreams when asleep; the names for things and for sensible qualities blunt our vision to nuances and varieties in the visible world; normative religion hypostatizes the power of language over sight (“In the beginning was the word”) in order to legislate behavior through fear; the only self-conscious and aesthetically responsible use of language is poetry; only through an educated and comprehensive encounter with literature and art can a visual artist hope to gain release from the dominance of language over seeing; there can be no naive, untutored vision; and the artist is repeatedly challenged to sacrifice the gratifications of the ego and the will to the unpredictable demands of artistic inspiration.’

Andy loosened a knot. Sensing colonial ghosts, there in the McMillan Library.

“Ol Donyo Sabuk, where McMillans be.” Moses said, “I have been there. An hour or so away. Musician, songwriter Kakai Kilonzo be from there too.”

Was the ghost of Lord William Northrup McMillan there, or his wife Lucie, so be it, were they impressed with the Poetry Train, and their freight wagons? Andy thought. Did he regret hunting? Railway money, and love built this Library. “Regardless of the hassle Mathias, please take us to the McMillam castle please.” Andy said.

“Yes Sir.” Mathias replied.

Redd added in on Brakhage wisdom, ‘The earliest cave paintings discovered demonstrate that primitive man had a greater understanding than we do that the object of fear must be objectified.’

Andy got up, looked around, and said loud in the Library, “Many Poets say, These are dark times, and I say, Poets turn the flood lights on, and sonic super sound up! Those who object, must have the color fear flowing in thy veins.”

Word! No Painbow, yeah yeah Painbow! Redd added.

“Painbow, that’s sounds grandiose.” Boet said, and laughed. “We have some more jumpers, let’s hope they land in the grass, and not the gravel.”

“Find out who they be, and send them a Candyland game.” Andy said, and they all gathered their things, and went to the McMillan castle.

Who still be on the create palette Andy? Redd asked.

“Poet Majaha Nkonyane contacted me today, still wants to work on book trailer, and he sent a great recording of one of his poems, with music. Poets Mike Cleven, Munia Kahn, Greggory Fino, Rolando Attanasio, James Harmon, Awotide Oluwaseun Micheal, and others too want a video creation. Book wise are Tammy Tamborini, Majaha Nkonyane, Mathias Toyota Safari, and Fantasy Author Mikey DePaul Jr, book and trailer. So once we get done with Kenya, I’ll contact them, and such to complete such work for these great talented writers, to make the world a better place, and ya Patrick Walsh too, full works, book, videos, and book trailer. We still have to make one for Poetry Train U.S. And Canada stories edtion with Pete ‘Freight Train’ Hamilton, and you also know we have our animal Poetry donation books in the works too.”

Channilo work too, correct? Redd asked.

“Correct.”

“The Wanderer books too, via U.S, Canada, Africa, and Australia.” Boet added.”

“The Art be in the doing, doing doing.” Andy replied.

Everyone looked at Andy like he was crazy. The closer he got he sensed something dark, and decided not to enter.

Mathias looked at Andy, and said, “ It was a military hospital during the First World War and a prison in the Second World War.”

Andy sat on the step thinking. The mental burdens this place must hold. I bet everyone thought it could be the end of the world, and for many I am sure it was.

Redd went in but did not stay long, he came out, and sat down next to Andy. The rest of the crew decided to go in, and look around.

“Redd, people want happiness.” Andy said, “It is crucial, and needed. People I believe are still in awe from world wars, not much of the younger generations but elders. Mystery be, what they think of the world today, and compared to their times.”

I think we should get back to the train. Redd said.

“Indeed.”

“To the falls of Mount Kilimambogo.” Boet suggested.

“To the falls of Mount Kilimambogo.” Everyone replied.

“Leopards, leopards, and leopards.” Andy said as they walked.

A white van pulled up, and Mathias spoke, “We have transportation to the Falls, and back to the train station. A Super safari Uber.”

Everyone laughed but not Andy he spotted a Leopard, and its family.

“Leopard yawning in the tree.” Andy said. “Down below, the day goes with his family. Wagging their tails, and scratching each others backs. Kissing, and pant, I do wonder what these Cats do rant? Maybe watch its tail, seems like a waving question mark, in the wind it does sail. Imagine all the spots and all of their lots. Interesting Leopards, little I connect the dots.”

At the falls, they kicked off their boots, pulled up their pants leg, and relaxed to their knees in the water. Andy looked at all of their faces, and their reflections too, and thought about the left and right side of each of us, and he compared them, and recalled his Grandmother in the mirror. Andy noticed, the two sides were different, so this is what he looked for in himself, and in the crew members. Was love deep in heredity, and how can it be spread evenly? Andy questioned to himself.

“Are we prophets too?” Boet asked.

We all accepted this mission. Redd replied.

No one said a word. As they returned to the Nairobi, and before going to the train station they decided to get some street food before their visit to the Railway Museum. There birds sounded like crying babies. Propelled air planes could be heard. Once they entered they all ready loved the get up and set up. Good ol’ days artifacts, furniture, pictures, old phones, much relics and records... Train engines #87, #2921 #3123, and #6930 were there, a Bever-Garratt Locomotive via 1940. Crane wagons, passengers trains, sleeper cars, and signs everywhere of mens names that were killed by Lions.

Mathias got a package at the desk, and it was a drone for the crew, a Parrot Bebop. Boet knew about it, done his homework on it. Boet the drone pilot, who had guessed. Mathias got the crew permissions to get aerial views of Mombasa-Nairobi Standard Gauge Railway. Everyone got fascinated by this.

The Maroon Giant aka Engine Train #5918 charter came in a whistling, and its air hissing, and it sounded like it was hissing, ’Right on track, right on track,” sounded beyond cool to them.

“We should have ate here at the the station canteen.” Moses said with an handful of food. “There is no more old railway running, and all has gone to ruins. As new railway rail has been laid by Chinese and it started last year in 2017. From Embakasi to Mombasa all new stations, now it takes six hours from Nairobi to Mombasa where as it use to take about twelve hours.”

“Right, good though.” Andy stated, and said, “I love these old photos here.”

I love the old tools. Redd added.

“I love the old type writers.” Boet said.

“We are going to have to look at the Graffiti too, on the outside.” Mathias said.

“Oh proud, ol glory, ol Sandihands, oh sovereighty, heritage.” Andy said as he sat down. “So where does one shove a cue ball up humanities H-crap karmas ass?”

Andy you are such a verbal gymnast, Redd stated. Elevating mundane communication from mere talk into a creative process, innovation, new light on old ideas. Makings life less boring and more fun for you, us and others. Binding together remote and separate notions, finding similarity in dissimilar things, or dissimilarity in similar things.

“Why why why?” Andy asked.

“Links presenting for all to see.” Boet replied, “The connections in between.”

“Mayhaps perhaps, witzelsucht.” Andy replied, and everyone laughed. “Oh the fun moments.”

Appreciating language. Redd replied. Wit a kind of wisdom, the antidote for a culture being dulled by communication overload, aka H-crap.

“The most surprising discoveries.” Andy said, “A new found prudence, yes indeed.”

Calm and comfy. Redd replied. A new found prudence, love that, right there.

“Soul flow, blood flow, calm flow, word palm flow, with word of mouth flow.” Andy replied. “Memory glow, and nature flowing, poetry showing back at us, repeat POETRY Showing back at us, and telling us to conjure imaginary worlds; to free us from being mired in linear time.”

We must stay well rested and calm. Redd said. So our brains be aka can time travel well.

Everyone smiled.

“Poets prospectus folk.” Boet added. “Freeing our minds from the tyranny of the present.”

“What about Poetry insurance, and Poet insurance?” Mathias asked.

Everyone laughed, and they all thought about that right there. Poetry insurance!

We are Poetry and Railway History entertainment training minds to get better at cognitive time travel.” Mathias added.

You have a point. Redd replied.

Thinking, proto Poet in core culture Poetry.” Andy said. “You know then so then there be Poetry and there be Poetry fiction. We are a product. We are a tool. We are Poets without borders, green ink fools.”

“You see I see Chinese.” Boet said, “Tree planting, and dancing, Mombasa, Fort Jesus.”

Mathias was the only one who did not smile. He looked to be under a spell, witch craft. Andy seemed to be the only one to notice Mathias, and his many leavings and returns to the crew on this stretch of the journey. Andy recalled, ‘Yes it is that time, the time to silently say good bye, many people through all of these journeys, they had to silently say good bye, and it hits hard, hard to the heart. Die like a guinea fowl without losing colours.’

Perhaps Poets make bad politicians and activists and should restrict their pronouncements to fiction, otherwise they might stand accused of not being able to discern fiction from fact when dealing with everyday reality on the ground. Redd stated.

“We are not thin skinned.” Andy replied, “The curriculum, or curriculum fascinates me. We see the psychopathic game of crown the Oligarch. The global oppression will soon find themselves extinct, another failed experiment in an evolutionary process that eliminates overly successful species whose success threatens the diversity of life. The Anthropocene Era will be but a brief sigh of relief. Party and argue on; internecine squabbles are such an effective distraction.”

“Three things will save African intellect.” Boet replied, “One, individual responsibility. Two, technology, and three global standards.”

“Let us allow our people to engage individually, and work to meet high global standards.” Moses added, “Let us encourage our peoples to rise up to such standards. We are a strong people. Let us allow our people to fight, and pursue their best interests individually.”

Boet looked around and said, “That is the only hope we have of breaking the cycle.”

Andy thought about prayer, and he’s been building a Poetry Psalm and Proverb playlist. He knew they we talking about deadly vipers of the West that some people in Africa worship and adore.

The Poetry train crew were fully interested in Africans as a people, and not for what Africans can produce for them. The time to go to the falls of Mount Kilimambogo has been cancelled due to weather. They knew too higher education is not divers. Higher education is colonial. The academy is colonial machinery. They knew, the world needs another vision, many aspects of which are already visible if all, all just seize it. They knew, the west is in decline and as it declines, the cliques in charge will become more dangerous, racist and aggressive. They are already eating their young, destroying their own working people and could care less about the rest. Their fossil-based economies are not sustainable and they lack the political will to do anything about it, and we will all pay for this.

Travelers must relish even if they did miss all the crazy steps it takes to climb to the falls of Mount Kilimambogo. The summit, and they loved that word, Summit. 67 floors, 21788 steps, and 13.8 km in total.

As the train moved they looked at the China Road and Bridge Corporation and Railway workers work on a section of the walled up areas to protect animals. They also seen Wildlife Sanctuary workers too. Looking like controversy was not absent.

A man and woman sat down with the crew, and it became a prayer train. They were Joseph Tiphy Gachuhi and Helen Wangui Tiphy, and they brought their Fellowship Coach to the diner, because they knew the crew were too on a mission of peace and wisdom. A slight greeting, and prayer for the elections in Kenya. For God to give peace and to give God-fearing leaders who believe in the Lord. Praying to God that there won’t be any bloodshed in the nation of Kenya.

“The Chinese should build Americas wall.” Andy stated.

Everyone laughed, and laughed.

Andy and Redd knew too wisdom was like Baobabs, movement slow and barely perceptible. What the trees see, that there alone be anthologies of poetry. The poem Baobab Tree by Victor Richards comes to mind, deeply. Big corporations as Elephants attacking Baobabs with a ferocity, similar to Poets and Poetry. Resilience was fluid. Soft was an illusion, hard wisdom was the core. There are trees here in Africa living, and still living from the eras of Buddha’s life, Julius Caesar, Jesus Christ, and Aristotle.

Baobab big. Redd proclaimed, We have Rabbits, we have Rabbits. We are going to be, a big Baobab tree, yep! Diversity big...

Everyone smiled big. The train slowly rolled away from Nairobi, and they all took a glimpse of the city, to add to their memories before they arrived in Makadara, Donholm, and then Mombasa. They were on the lands of the man eating Lions. They were on the shoulders of Lions, and Giants in this world wide Poetry alliance.

Thunderstorms were seen in the distances. Boet read the poem, “Stanley Meets Mutesa” by rebel Poet James David Rubadiri aka the Father of East African Poetry in English.

“David might would say, this region is a great store for art and literature.” Boet said.

Higher education was and be important here to parents. Redd added.

“Because of the importance of the discussion of human rights in literature.” Andy added. “Always keep thy head up, no slouching.”

In sync they all said, We see the colonial analogy.

“A wise man once said that a man is poor to the world if he does not have a penny; he is only poor if he does not possess a dream.” Boet said.

“Everyone should grow up with Poetry.” Andy said.

Redd wanted to laugh, and say something about the Wanderer books for U.S.A. Canada and Africa. He thought, ‘Grown Ups Of Poetry.’

He and Andy were also into those too into ′Analyzing Everyday Language to Understand Social and Psychological Processes,′ it was fun in the mind mirror house.

“Where was a James W. Pennebraker lie detector test?” Andy asked, “Happy Poets versus Sad Poets.”

“Right now I am a happy Poet, because U.K. Poet Victor Richards gave us permission to upload his spoken word Poem, ‘Streets Paved With Gold.’ He created it with yesteryear Railway wisdom. I was like wow, this Poem video would be nice to have on our channel, and as soon as I thought this, Victor messaged us to upload it, and I told him what I thought, and he said, ‘Great Minds’ think alike.

Nice, Our lives, Redd said, As Nouns versus verbs.

“Did not Ngugi Wa Thiong?o say, you can’t tame the Irish?” Andy asked.

Yes they all, replied.

“I rest my case.” Andy said, and everyone laughed.

Where was Mathias, he was sick and kept it secret? It became toxic. He was in his roomette, writing a letter to the crew. He knew too, As a forensic handwriting analyst who has also studied statement analysis. Mathias finds much material relates well to the way people write. For example, the way the single personal pronoun I is written, its shape, size, the distance it is placed from other letters, the direction it leans, in the context of that handwriting all reveal a great deal about the person.

Mathias was not in much to function well, so he paid close attention to his function words.

Something was wrong as Andy sensed Mathias, and he shortly recalled their time at the museum, similar to turn around time, what took a train fourteen days now takes seven, Andy thought, memory, and email, the speed of modern communications, and what be monitoring. Andy thought about the Angels, and his prayer again. We alone are our rich reward, guarding our souls, as Poet King David said in many ways. Andy reflected upon his instincts, as the worlds digital Poetry Train moved into the new millennium. A decade had been, and all in the now. Everything was far away, now all be right here.

“We are on the lunatic express line.” Andy said.

“There is lot more to be learnt, I think without the Indians from India.: Boet said, “Britisher would have struggled to complete the Railway track. Also don’t forget that it was mainly Indians who were running the Railways, when it was still East African Railways, and after independence E.A Railways common services broke down. Kenya Railways staff was Africanized and hence the downfall of Railways. Hardly any Railways service now. I am looking for the book, ‘Race, Rail and Society’ by Neera Kent-Kapila.

“What’s wrong Redd?” Andy asked.

Reading these war poems about Kaiser Wilhelm, who was a German ruler. A reading about bad-tempered similarities between him and the current U.S.A. President. I won’t say his name, so sad and sick. Although found, The Day Poem written by Railway Porter Henry Lang Chappell aka the Bath Railway Poet.

“Seems many Poets and Poetry have been lost since world war one, and that be not good.” Boet said, “Curious as to why, and seems it should be not, and Poetry that should be read, and heard so anti-war awareness be vital, and available.”

“Saddens me.” Andy said, “Vengeance this vengeance that, on and on. I do understand full protect, removing evil dangers, but not twisted kinds. Empire versus Empire not fully grasping Gods’ beautiful creations.”

Many of these Poems nearly mention God. Redd replied. Children have to look at history of wars in disgust, and sense it as waste, serious waste. Anyone in their right mind can see the disease, clearly!

“Beware of Gods’ curse.” Andy added, “Great advice I can give be, guard your souls with all you have. I repeat, Guard your souls with all you have!”

Everyone looked at each, and thought deep.

“We must be bright spots in the darkness.” Andy said. “Save the Poets, Poetry, and Railways. And yes memories, and by the way I created Memoir-Memoir.com, because because Poets regardless of Academic smack, Poets need to be known, and this be a fact, because in REALITY people would buy Poets’ books, if they shown themselves some, and balance with MYSTERY!”

Poet Ahmad Nassir Juma Bhalo Sayyani says, When you have taken in the commandments of Moses, the bibilcal Moses, and worship God know that you have obtained a shield in this world and here after. Redd added, and looked at Moses their new compadre, with a smile.

Andy stared at the moving ceiling fans on the diner car ceiling, and thought about Gods’ point of views, and searched for understandings. He thought about divine time, divine time travel, and St. Augustine perspectives, Perhaps it might be said rightly that there are three times: a time present of things past; a time present of things present; and a time present of things future. For these three do coexist somehow in the soul, for otherwise I could not see them. The time present of things past is memory; the time present of things present is direct experience; the time present of things future is expectation.

He thought about the seven cardinal rules. Make peace with your past so it does not spoil your present. Your past does not define your future – your actions and beliefs do.

What others think of you is none of your business. It is how much you value yourself and how important you think you are.

Time heals almost everything; give time, time. Pain will be less hurting. Scars make us who we are; they explain our life and who we are; they challenge us and force us to be strong.

No one is the reason for your own happiness, except you yourself. Waste no time and effort searching for peace and contentment and joy in the world outside.

Don’t compare your life with others’; you have no idea what their journey is about. If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else’s, we would grab ours back as fast as we could.

Stop thinking too much; it’s all right not to know all the answers. Sometimes there is no answer, not going to be any answer, never has been an answer. That’s the answer! Just accept it, move on. Next!

Smile; you don’t own all the problems in the world. A smile can brighten the darkest day and make life more beautiful. It is a potential curve to turn a life around and set everything straight.

Andy looked at the the Kenyan railway brilliance, and spoke, “Heaveno, America needs a RAILWAY overhaul, junk the junk, salvage the HISTORY! I have to applaud AFRICA & CHINA for their RXR visions! As we know Redd we on it!”

Andy be saying pull the pins on H-Crap! Redd replied.

Andy opened up their Parrot Anafi drone, and plugged in. All net connections went down.

The Wifi signals came on then went out when logged in.

Signal gone, Crazy... Redd stated.

Mysteries it was, as the train moved on...

Signal on, signal crashed, signal on. Redd added.

They knew Mathias was not coming back, and we should have seen it coming...

“This land be still echoing world wars, space, place, and shape.” Andy said. “Hmm, puzzle piece, poetry in military newspapers. Boet, launch the Electric Owl please.”

“10/4” Boet replied. “Soul mines Sir.”

“Well done.” Andy said.

It was that one. Redd said. Range test Boet.

Andy recited the poem ‘For the Fallen’ by Laurence Binyon. published in The Times newspaper on 21 September 1914. The date was Andys’ Grandmothers birthday.

“Fallen in the cause of the free.” Andy spoke, “Are we, are we in the air, because all we are all we need. Everyone should learn to play drums, and basket-case ball, and double dribble, basketball with two balls. Wifi sky. We have a bat on the train Mathias...” Andy flew the drone inside the train car.

Heaven yes that was cool. Redd said, Drone fired up. Automatic shut off. Flight plan be good, GPS .

Andy laughed and said, “We did not take the lens cap off, stop flying blind...”

Everyone laughed, and Redd replied, Still it be weird it knocked us out of the wifi sky.

“While rustling geese.” Andy replied. “I like the techniques of ground camera watching drone camera, and the drone camera watching ground camera, or two drone cameras watching each other.”

“Gents, why do people have children recite new war poems?” Boet asked.

They thought about this as the train moved through Kibera, and on one side of the tracks were poor people, and rich people on the other, and Andy seen Railway Ghosts, and he asked Moses, “Are you a Railway worker, because Moses was, Holy Moses?”

Moses smiled, and sung the song, ‘Made in Kibera.’

Andy replied about war, “And th’Vicious Circle never ends. We as a unit regardless off heartbreak and death, the train was moving. We love Kenya where the 10 Commandments be, and it be actually scary knowing and such. Very cool though.” Andy done Electric Owl mode, Chinas’ colonial and gravitational pull, and this put Andy and the crew in WOW mode, because even there, Poets knew, the secrets to life. “Unlike spaghetti fireworks Poetfiti.”

Boet read aloud, “Increasing scrutiny as China prepares to embark on what many consider the biggest development push in history. Andy you are a bad ass.”

In China, There be a ninety three year old professor who be crazy about Chinese poems. Redd said, Han Shan, a.k.a. Cold Mountain Poet always tried to make people better. He also tried to find a way to laugh at everything, and we must too.

“We have another jumper, must not like reality to well.” Andy said, “Have a nice day!”

Everyone shook their heads.

“Hopefully they did not land into a merchants umbrella, and there were many of them, pointing near us.” Boet said.

And the train plunged on, and people on the train spoke, Africa, you are selling your soul to the Chinese. Some day they will come to collect it!

Boet spoke, “According to the history writer Cynthia Salvadori aka the hunter and gatherer of Kenyan memories. The Chinese have all ready been here in dhows. Leads me to the commerce of the universe. They have been here since the construction of the Uganda-Railway at the turn of the 20th century and most are thus fourth generation Kenyans.”

“No commerce as romance back in the day, now it be everywhere so what do you say.” Andy said. “Wifi sky suit and tie, beware of the camera eye. Not many understand life, the way it be until we die.”

“How exactly is China helping Africa in this case?” Moses asked, “What’s there to celebrate about this railway, given the humongous loan at high interest rates taken to construct that outdated railway line? How exactly is China different from the western colonialists? They too loaned Africa money to construct infrastructure purely for the exploitation of Africa’s resources! How different is China in this case? How many worthwhile factories or industrial plants is China building in Africa purely to help Africa?”

Redd spoke, No, actually if Africa asks other countries to do the job, the cost will be the same or even cheaper but most importantly, other countries will do a better job! The reason why Chinese take short time to do these projects is because they are sub-standard! China can build a road in two years but the road will be full of pot-holes in less than a year! And the money to repair the road is a new loan with new conditions. If German or Norway builds the same road, it will take five years but the road will last for twenty years without any problem! And they will offer eighty percent jobs to Africans. On the other hand, China demands that eighty percent workers are Chinese, and that takes away job opportunities from Africans! Now tell me, who is mean?”

Andy looked at Boet.

“China builds, America bombs.” Moses replied. “God bless China. to hell with USA.”

“Moses,” Boet said, “No one said that you should trust China or Western countries. But you must remember that when your country does not have hard cash to build anything how do you propose to progress and modernize? Do you think anyone is going to hand out money to Kenya to kick start the economy? Do you think that the West or US is going to hand out soft loans to your country? And do you even know the meaning of soft loans? You need to understand that what China is doing is providing soft loans to Kenya and kick start the economy and of course there is no such thing as a free lunch. You need to go back and listen to Sir Robert Mugabe and Jacob Zuma speech on China. Kenyan government knows that they do not have the money to start anything and the only choice is to seek China’s help by providing soft loans and investment. With both in mind and of course Kenya is expected to provide some kind of returns such as oil and minerals which you have mentioned, there is absolutely nothing wrong. Fair exchange is no robbery.”

Andy found the poem, ‘Remembering Mombasa’ by Azad Shah, and he recited it.

“Things be not what they seem.” Boet said. “Although we should arrive at Mombasa at 8.00 am the next morning.”

They all ordered soup, a fish course, meat and veg and dessert, with coffee.

“The Indians and their railway mittens,” Andy said, “May God bless your tiffins.” Andy thought about Mombasa and a sailing dhow, and how be this world ever going to make out. Rejoice, grasp the concept of tears of joy.

Yes, the drone sat on the table, and the power of Poetry grew upon the world as they moved southwest to Battle City aka Mombasa. The crew knew too as Poet Micheline Maylor says, Poetry connects us a people with common experiences and emotions. The crew were collecting their thoughts, calming their nerves, and building suspense. They knew too, a man needs to know what he is to be alright. He should always stick to his favorite image of himself.

They loved Poetry for the wisdom of true word singing mortals. They did not idolize Poetry and Poets but cherished them. Just as there be Gods’ Animal Kingdom, there be also a Poet Kingdom. Books of travel, and history alone should open up inner beauty, wonder. Many types of extinctions have been foreseen many years ago, and seems many have come true, and are. Animal extinction, and the respect for Poetry and Poets. There be an intellectual malice in the world. The crew too were Poetry Trained with a Poetry Trained attitude. Dream weavers who have learned so much from Poetry and Railway history. They also knew fate has a funny way of changing history. They were near Tsavo, and what else has crept in they do not see, that be killing off Poetry? Like Railway routes, some are up-rooted, and others mentally vandalized.

The Rift Valley plains eased their minds as the train serpently like twisted on. They thought about prayer rooms at the train stations here, and that says so much. They thought about ambidextrous people, and the dynamics of the train. Most people pray with two hands, they thought, and they thought of the music tones, why does low tones be on the left, and high tones on the right? They thought about left-handed piano players. They thought about what Skip Marsden said, ‘Poetry is what separates humans from animals. And among humans, separates humans from animals. We are designed and meant to be humans. Not animals.’

Andy laughed, and spoke, “Word, and that right there maybe to why Poetry Books don’t sell. HA ha!”

“Andy are you suggesting some Poets maybe mentally ambidextrous?” Boet asked.

If you can imagine it, you can create it. If you can dream it, you can become it. _William Arthur Ward.” Andy replied.

The effects of African time, and the moon were large, like a child holding a ball in front of your face, and the night breeze sung, and whispered like a new crowd of sincere fans. Lunacy it be, and the moon seemed like a postage stamp machine too, and everyone sent a letter of some sorts, also a poem, a poem like a tuk tuk, you taxi to beautiful places within. One had to be careful though of the changes of the moon, because in ways the moon light changes you.

The waiters came, and refilled drinks. The countryside became diminishing because darkness and Danger were dancing in, mile after mile, kilometre after kilometre as the Kenya night took command. The crew noticed Zebras walking, and they thought about Lions, and the Lions long ago hiding in the tall grass. And they thought about Lions with golden crowns, and what Lions thoughts maybe.

Between the crew, the communications between them were enjoyable, bucket-less. They knew the spirit of the times, all times, and that no one communication style is inherently better than another. They knew how to not, to come across as cold and aggravated, but to be fully listening for analytical facts. Emotional or not. The crew loved to be intuitive, because they breathed the big picture. They heard, and hear the hammers creating, and demolishing the clocks and Swiss watches alike, and restoring them too. There in between one could hear divine time. They were time loop hole gap experts in modern times. They loved it, the functional processes of what they knew. Life was no rush for them. The crew knew the glue. Masters at vibes. Their minds were branded with Poetry, written, spoken or oral and Railway history. Every where they looked was a mind palace and farm too. For Andy and Redd they loved being memory athletes. Memory specialists, tasks of recording living testaments of the Poets and Railway history.

This was still the Lunatic Express, where memory be another form of lunacy that, like any other insanity, can be evolved more to help experience more or less oneness.

Memory making things more memorable, an amazing life of life itself. Mnemonics, and the mighty five W’s.

Andy tied knots many knots, different kinds of safety knots, while remembering many things, and other sorts of knots. Also Billy Pawn, wisdom, ‘If you do not know how to tie a knot, tie it a lot.’

Ambidextrous folk, and martial arts comparison came to his mind too, mental Kung-fu, while in lasso. He thought that every Poetry prepper, yes, prepper, as in prepare say they’d dare, should learn to tie, and may be useful in bug out situations so it would be good to commit many knots to memory.

Or were these knots hand made odes, charity to inspire all, and the crew members, furthermore to the divine, in hopes they were to be honored. The Railways were the kingdoms of Poetry, where Trains were rolling palaces of Poetry stimulating the routes of wisdom blended to recall, all Poets, to call all Poets, in all for one, and one for all. Big and small.

Here in Kenya the Lions of truth opened the gates. The paths of memory and all of truths. Divinity. Danger was this, the devils tongue, scorn, back biting, human snake biting. She was here, Danger. Danger some how killed Mathias, and the Railway were preparing his body for the Goddess of Memory. Mother of all muses. Poetry Poetry!

The Poetry Train crew were ready writers as in Psalm forty five, your throne, forever. Protocol it was, and Poetry skippers they be. Rising through the night with all the Poets from Kenya. And prior, this Poetry Train be on fire!

Maybe Poets were Tell Tale experts, that had the authority to stay awake all night, and tell night time, bed time stories, and that’s what they did all night, tell stories, did what they do, all the way to Mombasa.

Boet played new Poets, and said, “Mukoma Wa Ngugi has said, ’I think those in the writing industry, from independent publishers to the writers lucky enough to make a living out of their work or a semblance of it; we have a duty to insurgency. We need to pool our resources no matter how meager and underwrite some of our own adventures. I would like to see a conference that brings my generation of writers in dialogue with my father’s generation, but surely such a meeting cannot be primarily sourced by foreign funding.”

Redd looked at Andy, and smiled, and they both were reading about Ciarunji Chesaina, an oral literature expert.

“I tell you, I tell you, even in the dark here, the sun be smiling upon us.” Andy said.

“Chamin Asis. Beautiful Kenya.” Moses replied.

Make it sing to us troubadours, as Poet Marjorie Oludhe Macgoye would say. Redd replied with a smile.

“Like a guitar player, David Gilmore, Mick Mars.” Andy added, and laughed. “So you know, I tell you about my emotional intelligence. I am self aware, that not to many be aware and it disrupts my management, burts want to come out, ya ya Bert. Earns me Ernie, what be my motivation, oti, wisdom, wisdom has taught me to yank cobras from the dark, and crack them silly against anything. Ha ha. While whipping, I’ll say, why did you not engage empathy, and laugh. Oh common ground, and bam, I throw the snake to the ground. I journal, and ask others things to what be best, to make life better. Slow down they say slow down, and I laugh, and reply, I have two speeds, fast and faster. No worries, my emotions like h20, they return to where they splash from, I know, wavy baby, wavy. They say emotional intelligence be knew, hmm, say so like in, Poetry says not, martial arts says not, Good God almighty, smash your T.V. and phones.

Everyone laughed.

“Can chakras, or charades protect us from man eating Lions?” Andy asked, “Because we have a Lion problem, yes we do. Yes, and ghosts, many many ghosts. Keep in mind we are no ordinary Poetry promoters like these Lions are not ordinary. Political lying, Lions too. Boo.”

Everyone looked out the windows.

“The British Empire be not here this time.” Andy said. “And no thorn bushes on this train. Or where to find glass to break, them Lions hate that sound.”

Everyone looked around for glass.

“We must warn the staff.” Moses said.

“Look, there the Lions are pacing away from the Railroad tracks.” Boet stated.

“Look the Masaai Mara are over there. I heard the Lions are scared of these jokers.” Moses laughed “The British did a documentary about these fighters who fought them with all heart and spears. They whipped the British so damm bad, they still studying how they lost.” Moseas laughed again, “Much respect Masaai Mara.”

“While the Lions paced away, the massive decline of historical thinking cameto all, and to all who be thinking of such things, same as the decline of Poet thinking, well maybe, ha ha.” Andy said, “So carry on, and voter vote vote World WIDE, and sink the EARTH BOAT. Idiots, with massive capital I’s dioti.. Maybe it be me, and it seems to me, Mother Nature about to clean house... And yes as I SAID BEFORE, We be on a RESCUE MISSION...”

Poets comment back online, ’Mother Nature be already cleaning house, in shake-shake mode, Andy.”

Redd laughed, and spoke, We are so counter intuitive because because, we do our best to get all Poets successful. All first, no dang me only, me first H-crap, one here and there. Recall, favoritism does not build the Poetry audience. We have learned from others, USA Poets, Canada Poets, and so far, thirteen countries of Poets on Africa. So talk over us, judge us, preconception and bias us, this be not a bus. Throw in your egos too please, furthermore shut us off. Because no matter, we are listening. Not at lose.

“What do you think the defense will be, ’Silence speaks louder than words?” Andy asked.

Everyone laughed.

The staff came, and let the crew know all was fine. The crew knew things were not.

“We are truly in the Lions den of the Ten Commandments- TOWER OF BABEL HA E-BABEL-, aka Yo, so here, hmm, back track,” Andy said, “Speak English or die. This be fun. What was that London brick? CLIP, PUZZLE. Lol Hear we throw. Forward March. I always wanted to left hook ha. NARROW SHADOW. Been tellin you they say- I love it. Here we come, -... ...- ”

USA and Mexico should build a water park, via the Rio Grande instead of a fly over wall. Redd said, What will all that look like one hundred years from now?

“I am sure the air forces would love the water park idea too, then again maybe not.” Andy replied as he tied another knot.

Reading about ol Illinois y’all, there be a bill now that allows police to use drones equipped with facial recognition capabilities for protests, Redd said as he read, Poet and Poem recognition capabilities. Imagine that. All of this power and none of it to benefit, and boost Poets and Poetry. A Stingray of phone date too. God please let all of this tech be done rightly for the good. The Power of Photography as we know from studies, and now this, the right to peaceable assembly under photography? We do know public events and assemblies and protests have been recorded for the past years. Recordings have made public protests safer and far more successful than they otherwise would have been, I believe. As an example the photographs of Alabaman police setting dogs of civil rights parchers helped to destroy institutionalized segregation.

“I agree, flip the coin though,” Andy replied, “One nation under surveillance. The drones mayhaps should be used by citizens to follow police, and monitor their actions as public servants. Keeps all murder rate down.”

“We are like a traveling Poetry and Railway history library.” Boet said with a smile. “Totally American.”

I wonder who applauds us from afar, and we do not hear the joy? Redd asked. Online Poetry connects people way different since 1996 as we know, and it be still mind blowing to me. Real-time feed back etc &c... Poets are being heard, and read.

“Beautiful be what it all be, beautiful, and not many get that in full.” Andy replied.

“Is WordSlinger an ink roper?” Boet asked.

Maybe, Redd replied, and everyone laughed.

“What if everyone loved and understood Poetry?” Boet asked, “Because Caroline Slavin asks, and seems to me, everyone would get along, and make the world a better place if they did.”

“People would understand love more than they do.” Andy replied.

“A lot of things.” Boet added, “As Poet Sam Mbure has said, Even mother tongue needs to be heard and placed all over, too. Children need to tell stories too, from beginning to end. This be all very important.”

Also know a home library helps children along in life , and with being out and in nature helps to be a better person and to be adults. Redd added, And we use digital media for the good. Up-playing be what we call it.

“Nice.” Andy replied, and everyone laughed. “Karin Barber has a point, what are the Poetry audiences doing for Poetry and Poets around the world?”

Interesting she says, audiences are not all the same. Redd added in, Just as much as performances, they are a historical product.

“While we are in Africa, let us study, Out of Africa novelist Karen Blixen aka Isak Dinesen.” Andy suggested. “Rule be you can not please everyone.”

“We can turn around, and go to her camp, and farm.” Boet suggested. “She has a Safari of yesteryear. We can ride a balloon to see wildlife.”

Andy looked at Redd, and they debated.

Karen says, we can transpose our sorrow and pain into stories, and well, Redd said, We know all about that.

“We can stop the train, and we can walk to her camp, but keep in mind of the human eating Lions.” Andy said.

“Accomplishes in accomplishments, we are cool misfits.” Moses said.

Everyone laughed.

“We can learn shadowology fast, and hide.” Andy said, “What scent do Lions hate?”

“Poets.” Moses replied, and all laughed.

“Beards will bring the females.” Boet said, and everyone laughed.

All jokes aside, you may have a point, as in Poets prides as in Lion prides. Poets may not like other Poets pride. Redd said.

“Interesting thought, and answer mayhaps be so, only tones perhaps, and I know you all know.” Andy added.

“So you all are like invaders.” Moses said.

Good one Moses. Redd replied. The world would not be a world without Poets.

Word! Everyone said in sync.

“I wonder what people will say about us when we have passed?” Andy asked, “Because Karen Blixen aka Isak Dinesen back then in her time; they say she was not a racist, but some after her death they say she was. I do not believe that. Crazy! Oh the Devils’ mouth. Crazy!”

“Maybe they will know you all are mega meta-fiction and mega meta-nonfiction, blended with micro-micro sparks that can light the world.” Boet said, “That is what I see. Dignity.”

Moses began to sing the Swahali song Baba Yetu.

“Author David Maillu, self taught by the way, did acts of miss spellings to buck the university educated elites.” Andy said, and laughed. “He says he has over one hundred and thirty books not published, and the publishers are not there, unless an unknown comes to mind.”

You mean like Kannonized, spelled with a K instead of a C? Redd asked.

Everyone laughed.

“I am favoring self educated people more.” Boet said.

“Look around at each other, and think what Francis Imbuga says, Never trust all the people and don’t condone misfortune to befall to you.” Andy said. “Be cautious because your best friend can betray you.”

They were at the place on the Railway that bisects the national park, creating Tsavo East and Tsavo West. The Poetry Train became a prayer train again, meaning the dining car became the fellowship coach. This was because many people were homeless, because the Railway demolized areas along the new road, and this made people living alongside the road to move somewhere else.

Ring rang went Andys’ cellphone, and Mr. Welchberry spoke as Andy speakered the call. “I have a midnight mind snack for you all. Howard French China’s Second Continent, study all on the land.”

10/4 Mr. Welchberry. Redd stated.

“Be very very loud, because we are searching for subversive Poetry!” Andy stated.

Moses sung the song ′Tulia Keep the Peace by Krista feat Ako the African.” And while he sung, he pulled out artwork, mini statues of art.

Redd sent out a Redd Alert, How China’s WeChat app became a grim heart of illegal animal trading by Peter Yeung.

“Send out a macro message, we won’t be in China for maybe say ten years.” Andy said, and laughed. “Scary tales, Fairy Tales, Hairy Tales, Our Tales. Hmm, anyway.”

Poets are more in the news on TV in Africa than America or Canada. Redd added, Africa regards their Poets more it seems.

“Redd, Be Spring has Sprung in Chicago n o w The Sun be prettier than a Grasshoppers Ass. “ Andy said, and looked at his hands.

“If Elspeth Huxley calls ordinary readers mythical creatures, I wonder what she would call us?” Boet asked.

“A face of Poetry.” Andy replied. “Alright alright we are back to where we once be be be, left off, we were in missing time sate, Aliens took us.” Andy laughed, and spoke, “We have been a mental Octopus, and now it be October, wow, have to love our brians, and never before but we gained wisdom, shhh, it’s our secret, and Kenya, what we call where the 20th Century blends with the 21st... We will start slow, because of the weather in Kenya, rested well... E-weather, life weather, but we moving along... One thing we want to mention be, If you love to write, and read, write and read, no matter what, about being published and all that be, because in all reality, you are great, and can be greater, so do not let anyone ever on any level in life, about life and that, stop you from the God given gifts you have... Yes it’s a mess, although messes are good, gather gather, throw away throw away... Kenya Poetry Train Hey Hey- And Mathias Safari, we moving Poet, we moving along.”

“It does feel like we were somewhere for days Boet replied. “Odd.”

There be duel this, and dual that. Redd applied wisdom. We must double duel up too. Recall this be the Lunatic Express.

“Where we with William Ernest Taylor collecting texts?” Boet asked.

“Maybe, translated something.” Andy replied, and they all laughed. “The Soul is Awakening, poem Al-Inkishafi.”

Yes or maybe with William Hichens. Redd added.

“Tell you what, feel exhausted.” Boet stated, “What and where ever we were, we must have labored.”

Everyone laughed.

Andy thought about the completion of Poetry Train Africa, because they have a long way to go. Completion as to, living long enough. “Maybe we got lost in the folly of the world. We never lost faith though, when people throw doubt upon us.”

Redd looked at Andy, and to say no more.

Andy laughed, and said, “We were warned of this train, and its lateness.”

They all looked at parading Elephants, and Zebras. The Chinese Railroaders.

Moses raises up, and looks at the Chinese workers closer, and speaks, “China’s increasingly large footprint here has generated both fear, and optimism. If would be great if China had three Poetry promoters like you three here too, and blended Chinese Poetry, with you.”

Andy and Redd looked at each other, and smiled. Boet looked at Moses, and said. “I love Basho. The “One Belt One Road” (OBOR) project is a trade network, reminiscent of a 21st century Silk Road, aims to link Europe, Asia, and Africa in a massive government-funded development project.”

“A superpower issue.” Andy replied, and laughed. “More to the more, Super Poets, solve issues like this. Super Poets are vilified.”

“This Railway has created thousands of careers that is for sure.” Moses said. “I should apply online.”

People still have no put together that Poetry is a win win also. Redd added. Poetry imported books, and exported. Poetry, poetry, poetry, not war, war, war!

“Africa pull the plug, and take charge of its natural resources, manage its own currencies and build our own future.” Moses added.

Andy was reading about Alice Werner, her studies of African Folklore, and languages, furthermore her poem, “Bannerman Of The Dandenong” into which reminded him how far the technology of Trains and Railroad have come, and comparing to this beautiful Railway in Kenya. So he told the crew his thoughts.

Moses laughed, and said, “Maybe you have heard this Kenyan joke, Your Mamas’ bottom so fat, the British tried to build a Railway system across Kenya. China trying too now.”

Redd was reading about Peter Kimani and his “Dance of the Jakaranda” book, and made not to promote later, and sent Peter a friend request. Redd intuition told him, he seems to be one that would snoop this train, and block it.

Moses looked at them, and said, “I wish you foreigners the best.”

“Thanks, glad you didn’t say luck, because, the word luck be a joke.” Andy replied, “Confidence, Moses, confidence.” Andy smiled, and went back to studies.

“Kumuka, means remember, or history.” Moses said.

Nice, Now now, John E. WordSlinger once said, Poetry for me, be like being a great fishermen, must know the waters, to catch/snag the Poem out from the deep unknown... Redd said, Similar as history scribes, and history. To see the true true future, one must know the past.

They road past a beautiful pineapple plantation, and Railway fanatics.

Redd began to create the 2019 Alphonso G. Newcomer Award, awarded to Marjeta Shatro, and went over the 2016 Award, that went to Mathias T. Safari. Redd shared all of the awards, from Water aka Carlos Gomez, Yotanka aka Ellie Brown, to Nassira along with Mathias speech...

Redd spoke the words of Mathias’s wisdom, and last wishes for the Poetry Train.

My first collection, ” MOBUTU’S NAKED PALACE won the Alphose G Newcomer Poetry Award (2016), and I don’t intend to try to win anything. The more I look at African Literature awards or any other African competition, the more I see artists ( if not artisans) trying to brand Africa instead of trying to brand themselves; the more I see literary judges ( as if there is a yardstick for art) trying to promote a friend or a countryman. To be very blunt, the best teacher you can ever get for writing is in your heart; and not in that fancy Writivism festival, Kwani? or Caine lecture auditorium. While the best masters from Aristotle, Dickens to Conrad are self taught, an average writer in these parts of the world is trying to rebrand African Literature the way he heard so and so say it should be. We need to get the difference between writing and typing first, theorizing and gambling, thinking and drafting, speaking via art; and yapping through ink and paper.One of the worst collections I’ve ever read is Chinua Achebe’s Commonwealth Poetry Award Winning Beware Soul Brother ( 1974). Be ware soul Brother, we are now stuck: Too many poets, and not enough poems, too many creative writers and not enough fiction after the first generation writers.

-

Jesting is out of order.

Why are we stagnating when Europe is heading for the skies? Gone is the sensation of the 1970-80 when every University had a professor making his mark on global scale.Makerere was dishing out the day Okot Bpitek and Mazrui.Dar essalam Armah Kwei, Zimbabwe Stamkange and the Marecheras.Ibadan University Presss product were selling all over Europe like hot cakes.Others who had no point to say_ the likes of Taban Li Loyong were causing literary debates from all corners. Every city from Malawi to Somali was represented. Presidents like Senghor, Nyerere, Diop, Mugabe etc were writing like there is no tomorrow.That begs the question: what the heavens struck African Literature... Instead of becoming a giant, its trending in a very big dwarf Doctor. Very few academics in your circle can be traced via google scholar or zz books like you. If you were to throw out PhD holders with zero publications in 5 years, the universities would be empty. It is sprawling very many tiny mud fish, instead of distinct whales.

Is there any hope, or African Literature is now officially a a bag of chaff without grain?

Writers of the first generation used to theorize the best teacher of writing is always yourself! Creative writing courses are a joke. Have twice registered for free MCOOPs at Iowa but the best I have learnt from are the sidelines: from senior poets I networked with ( mentors) and not the lecturers. A mentor is everything, a teacher is nothing, and make statements: Very calculated artistic gambles and experiments. Ours is of Poets who win awards before they can write a line in rhythm; of prose writers who publish novels without an idea of plotting.

Who taught Plato? Who taught Homer? Who taught Sembene? Who taught Tutola? Writing remains property of what the Greeks called the Muse, the bitchy female god of poetry. It totally refuses to be a science someone wants it to be.... But then how are we going to advance? Via these literary festivals and awards? I’m told thousands of dollars are for grabs in Nigeria for literary awards.., but i’m yet to read more than a few jibberish from its recipients...

High Priests of Literature keep getting scarce, and this literary dessert is enlarging into a literary pestilence, but the optimists insist it is a new wave....all over the continent, except Nigeria of course. You guys double the rest of us combined. As for my Uganda, University professors have taken a niche for writing high school pamphlets. Its a shame some of these lazy people dine on the same table.

We need more ground breakers!

Is it even conformism? Its pure jesting. Anything you post on Facebook wins likes and accolades.

I think the ill tempers are rooted in the the market and marketing trends. The need to revere tradition, noting that since the turn of the 90′s, the market and canon have conspired to kill emerging writers, in the context of Africa....

Does that explain why most of them have become ill tempered?

I am not trying to defend outright flippancy, but to point out that traditional criticism has been too generous with the African first generation writers.

Good art has a way of shining even in the most scathing attacks, so the likes of Achebe are not going to suffer because a nondescript writer is trying to wrestle with them.

Tastes and opinion change over time, with some writers gaining more points as others lose out.

Inflated egos though, they have no place in art.

Andy, Redd, and Boet poetry is a non commercial genre.

If you want, Let’s develop a comedy show.

The world train series allows to commentate on the global events....

If it’s poetry the way it is... Quicksand!

You will drive a jaguar from the comedy series.

Once it’s comedy... Million dollars will follow.

The words Poetry Train would be hailed as an invention...

You even don’t need to be funny. Even a cam recorder can do it.

In that case, we kind of abandon the poetry route.

The Andy, Redd, And Boet can stay, but if it’s focusing on poetry per se...

Then it’s a dead end!

So which route are we talking

With comic scripts, you won’t go for Hollywood

It will come for you!

It’s going to get off as so big a show that you will fight to keep people out

Conceive everything, start with the comic scripts

Reorient yourself

Funding is not...

Talent is. Sweating is.

Self belief is

A cam recorder is enough

And see how to introduce yourself...

With a funny accent? Andy Italiano? Boet Mexicano?

Senor Redd I? etc?

With some hot social satire and jokes,

you can even enter politics at a later stage

Just work on the idea and get the set done

No need for investors, cam recorders are enough

You are the producer please,,,

It’s time for flying, protect your wings...

Okay my dear producer ??

I wish it appears moving....

A rickety bus can do

In between, anything to distract audiences can do...

Let it look like Austin powers

... With those animations

Don’t look for expertise...

Experts will suck life off every thing.

Spontaneous improvisation

The actors could need like 10 others sitting in the back ground.

Get the script idea to be shot... And we see.

I need to see what to add.

How do we simulate a bus to look like a train?

Head scout the core Andy, long time projects stall with personality crashes...!

The idea is being able to rehearse, and let it be the group you can dominate

That’s the most important.

The right team will come along, your train concept is solid.

Keep fishing, throw those back to the sea if they aren’t worth it...

“We are going to miss Mathias.” Andy said in a sad sad tone of voice. “And many Poets on this Poetry Train shall agree, we will miss Poet Mathias Toyota Safari!

Indeed.

“Also the Artist Seipelo kel, from Poet Pusetso Palesa Poem Africa My Motherland Featuring.” Boet added, may Seipelo kel rest in peace too.

Moses, spoke some poetry of Mark Obama Ndesandjo,

“You should command the forget-me-knots be few

So that memories may fade and our worries too

Because it seems we will never get out of Africa, and Kenya. Redd stated. Kenya is shaped like a skull, from Mombasa in the East to Kisumu in the west, from Turkana in the North to Nairobi in the south. Nairobi is the mouth. Kisumu and Mombasa form the ears, and the eye sockets are lost in the northern deserts. Interesting.

“Andy looked online, and posted, “Spread the word-

there be such a thing as Poetry

put it on your schedule

_Andy Sandihands

Boet hit the ten year Poet radar. Redd asked. Gentlemen, we can not let people forget us, and let people throw themselves into forgetting curves. We must also become a jacuzzi that never drains, and all wisdom retained. It be all important.

“This also be, it’s all here, there on our digital platforms too.” Andy said.

“I agree, we can’t let what we write kill the memories.” Boet, “Odd for sure. Sticky efforts.”

“We need to be more in peculiarities.” Andy added. “Super Poets, super writing! What do we ourselves forget?

Right!

Andy posted: “USA time, not maybe, indeed, Poets must stop battling each other as Politicians, and do what Poetry was meant to be, feel the world of life as each, in beauty of this tree of life, un-wack the wacked!”

Poets are the real life movie stars. Redd posted too.

“So we must not get smothered by H-Crap, be true Poets with our God given breath.” Boet Luve Duve added.

“We must be bold, very bold.” Andy added. “With super punchlines, and I believe we do, and have.”

I agree. Redd replied, and I agree with Mathias, we must go more to the Comedian route. And I see others too, our Actor friends on the train too.

“Also coward publishers are the problem too.” Andy added. “We are doing better our route anyway. We are a living movie, a living blocks of block buster films!”

Exactly, Redd replied, Word Bladders.

“Nice.” Andy replied, “Story carpenters, and word carpenters.”

“You are for sure Andy.” Boet replied, and laughed.

“Imagine a world where everyone, and I am meaning everyone on this planet knew how to play drums aka percussion, and were fully into aquariums, and caring for them.” Andy said.

That there be the key to for sure a better world, so let anyone doubt your wisdom now by that right there. Redd replied. I love that. Imagine a world where everyone, and I am meaning everyone on this planet knew how to play drums aka percussion, and were fully into aquariums, and caring for them.

“Poets should never be questioned… Questioners should be poetrocuted! By Oluoch-Madiang aka Wuod Nyar G’Otumba.” Boet added.

Indeed!

“We have two hundred and nine People following us on Facebook.” Boet said, “Let us call them staff riders.”

“Five hundred and thirteen people have unfriended us since Jaunuary 7thof 2010.” Andy added, “Why? Only God knows, although before we started this, we asked a Librarian in Chicago his thoughts, and I recall he said, If you get five hundred friends you are doing good.” Andy laughed, “We have three thousand and one hundred and eighty nine passengers.”

They all looked at each other.

“And many tickets to ride passed out, and will clear once we exit Kenya.” Andy added, and thought of Danger, and they must not be taken prisoner to Danger. “The difference between writers and their intellectual property be it belongs to them. Unlike those that play the lottery their earnings to earn most likely always ends up belonging to who knows to whom and who knows where. To me and for me the beauty best resides in my (our) (writings) state of being and to those I (We/Them/Us) share with or sell to, please already... Yes I know lotteries have been around a short time like the Irish lotteries, but guess what? Writers and Irish writers been around ~longer-, and shall... Confidence versus luck, and yes you don’t play you can’t win, and if you don’t write you don’t get read... Mortality versus immortality... Grateful and it’s time to eat...”

Asked my buddy yesterday in Chicago, any big winners, reply yes the State. Redd said, and laughed.

I also shown Constantine Enyo the Jailfunds.com website, because Poets need an income, and a website similar would be great for the Literary arts, and going back to the Poem bank.

“Speaking with Poet and Publisher Dancing Hawk, Eve Costello, this be what she said, “Andy, a Poem Bank! I love that idea for the Poetry Train, you know, if you charged $1 to “register” the poem, you maybe able to hire your film crew to make the Poetry Train television series. To make this happen, people need to be like me, be a mercenary at heart ... I guess I just don’t want to see the Poetry Train go away, and I can’t imagine paying to be a member, but I can imagine paying for services ... Like registering poems in a poem bank, or selling chapbooks, or linking to sales for other books, as is being done ... Anyway ... I know at some point, services can’t all be volunteer, holy cats ... but then, Andy maybe you could be the Poem Bank, and I could be the Chapbook Lady!” Eve laughed, and said, ... “We’ll advertise ourselves on the Poetry Train ... Hi-larious, and thank you for letting me share whatever off the top of my head in reaction to your thoughtful work.”

We need to learn more about this human capital! Redd said.

“10/4.” Andy replied. “Poet and Artist Olan L. Smith posted this about us... “What can I say about Redd, and Andys, and now Boet too, metaphorical book, “Poetry Train America,” and all in this series of books, but wow! I was with them in 2008/9, online, when the idea was born, and even then I thought, “This is an ambitious project,” a project to bring modern day poets together, online, and printed book form, “Poetry Train America” and now “Poetry Train Canada”, and “Poetry Train Africa.” Too many poets find themselves toiling in obscurity, and in the darkness. With his first adventure in seeking out these poets, they traveled, virtually, from state-to-state seeking out these poets, gathering them together in to their “train” and giving them a free ride into the world of their intellect. Many people couldn’t grasp the idea, the metaphor, or Their desire to give this train wheels, wheels into the future, and it seems it has become their life’s ambition to record all the living poets on this globe they find worthy of a ticket. The idea that once in print they are giving them immortality. I own this book and it is proudly displayed on my coffee table! I’m not saying this because I’m one of those Missouri poets he chose, I’m saying this, because I believe in the genius that is Their dream, to record the poets of the living world and give them recognition, giving them flight into immortality.”

Olan L. Smith,

Missouri poet and artist,

September 18, 2019

Immortality it be. Redd stated, So no, painful or not we should not forget. He is also painting portraits now of modern Poets.

“Very cool.” Andy replied. “9/11 taught us a lot, along with victims of the 2007-8 post-election violence in Kenya.”

“To remember is not to dwell on the tragedy; to remember is to keep a memory around to draw from its experience.” Boet added.

“Speaking on things, as we travel and un-ravelo.” Andy said, and kicked back, “There be such a thing as applying the brakes - ya ya headlights go out and so do tail lights. Origins of the saying Going to Hell in a Basket Case. Pretty obvious to me, many without realizing it or do, are creating it, causing the senses of these days. As A roofer told me the other day, most are mislead and misinformed. Not to many people are tugging up-up on the rope, and revealing the life/lives this earth was made for. So for the record it takes Poetry and Poets to see through this weave... th’Good Angels are watching... And dwelling on matters, beware anyone may turn us into a basket case, soul strength needed before you grab the rope!. Okay let’s talk about this human capital. Surprised too, no one ever posted on this matter.”

Human capital is a means of production, we been doing that, the art be in the doing. Redd said. Recall, all!

“Our books are buildings.” Andy added.

They all laughed, and said, “They sure are!”

Redd spoke from the net, Adam Smiths’ Fourth typed of fixed capital he says, of the acquired and useful abilities of all the inhabitants or members of the society. The acquisition of such talents, by the maintenance of the acquirer during his education, speaking of Ours here; study, or apprenticeship, always costs a real expense. We know all that, and it’s meaning; which is a capital fixed and realized, as it were, in his person. Those talents, as they make a part of ones fortune, so do they likewise that of the society to which he or she belongs.

“Poetry and Railway wisdom rich, indeed.” Andy said, “So where be our checks for our labor, and more of this and that etc &c?”

Everyone laughed.

“I am new at this, and was not born yesterday, but this here,” Boet stated, “Human capital is a collection of traits – all the knowledge, talents, skills, abilities, experience, intelligence, training, judgment, and wisdom possessed individually and collectively by individuals in a population. It be all here, and you two did it, and be doing it.”

Redd added, Human capital management is about three key capacities: the capacity to develop talent, the capacity to deploy talent, and the capacity to draw talent from elsewhere. Poetry Train dot com, a department of intellectual transportaion!

“Don’t become slaves to it.” Moses said.

Everyone laughed.

“Faith, it means the value on the chain is now on humans and not machines, because it will make for a better world.” Andy added. “Constantin Gurdgiev like us have read enormous amounts of information, retained it, and then like a genius has put it all together!”

The age of land, bricks, technology and now Poets’ land and bricks’ mind and soul technology. Redd said.

“Ya ya what he spoke, so where be our checks?” Andy said, and laughed. “Let’s go Poets, we enable the new world- Imagine if everyone got into Poetry, and the Poets’ books.”

“Labor fruits!” Boet spoke. “Our brains are fruits, ha ha love that.”

Everyone laughed.

It’s how we Poet up around here. Redd said, and laughed.

Andy began to bend, forward, looked at the ground then behind him, and down the aisle of the train.

What you doing? Redd asked.

“We are Poetries’ Donkies.” Andy replied, “Looking at time in this mirror universe, and listening to the winds howl. Time to me, be like, no wonder why I like to put my feet in the water, and no wonder why Chief Seattle be Chief Seattle. He knew time ran backwards as some waters can.” Andy pauses, and sits up, but looks back, and said, “We may have a chance to save humanity, we just have to install mental. Mental, Oh shit, handle bars when the wreck comes.”

“Oh shit handle bars, never heard that one.” Boet laughed.

“Drive a car in the U.S.A., and you will be prone to it all the time.” Andy replied. “We speaking for us, we are here to Poetry Rock n Roll. & pay no toll.”

I will be right back, going to have us some popcorn made. Redd stated. Because are we going to talk about chaos and disorder I am sure, so pull up your pants, buckle your belt and shoes. Redd laughed as he got up to go the cook. Andy by the way, gents, be shooting an arrow with his mind, pay attention. A new Poetry be being born, without a C-section! Because Andy knows who we are in this universe of ours. He maybe a neutron Poet, with gamma, and gammo Poetry.

Everyone laughed.

Tesla had archenemies. Redd stated as he left. We all do, although say handled correctly, become best allies.

“Gents, excuse me as I ponder, as in now, I call it October Octopus mode, where I look, and touch for memory at all the beautiful and ugliness falling down, or are they falling up? Andy spoke. “We have so much to do, and ponder. Like kudos to our Railfan braiding brother Anthony Holmes, so, my tummy tells me to review what he sent, now. Vacuums of wisdom.”

“I think Andy was hatched, not born as we know it.” Boet stated, and Moses laughed.

Redd returned, and said, Bad stuff happens going forward in time, so so what, if bad things can happen going back in time, but if mapped correctly, we can smoothly be.

“It’s like this, say two people love each other, it be they either do, or they do not love each other!” Andy added, “Someone spill some milk.”

Everyone laughed.

Andy continued, “Think of high speed internet, who would want anything else. Bank robbers what some companies are. Give them the bird!”

They were listening to Scientist Sean Carroll on the paradoxes of Time travel.

Clocks within body clocks, body clocks within, and some without, and the popcorn be not in synchronization. Redd said, Time and truth, paths of space, curvy wurvy, zippitty do dart! Para this, para that. What are we truly staring at?

“Right!” Everyone replied in sync.

“What are we staring at.” Moses began to answer, and express but not knowing, that they meant the answers are always right in front of us. Until they listened to what Moses had to say. “We maybe poetry – centric, but look, this here be China-centric, placing their blood and bones here. Do you see their tears here? So you may want to create a Poetry Train China right away.”

Redd and Andy looked at each, because they recalled a documentary on the power of China from the early 1990′s...

“Your Poetry Train Canada ambition was grand.” Moses said, and continued to speak, as Andy listened but also took Poet & Artist Olan L. Smiths’ advice, to look for meanings of Benjamin Button.

Andy spoke to himself inside his head, “We start wherever we are..... We are the owners of our destiny.......” He spoke out load, “We need to pay attention to our surroundings, and that be why I get ticked off, because most people carelessly do not, causing chaos.”

Everyone looked at each other.

“The back of my skull’s search-ness must be closing, ageing you know.” Andy said. “At least no horns, from hand held devices.”

And everyone laughed. While Redd, listened to what Michael Pillsbury had to say in his book, The Hundred Year Marathon, because he and Andy been Poetry E-Railing since 2010.

Mr. Welchberry contacted them, and said, “America does not see any place, as places see America, and America does not care about history.”

Andy agreed, and Redd too.

“We are teaching people, Poetry civilization.” Andy said. “Recall Confucius say as We see, it be peaceful here on Poetry Dead End Street!”

Word! Redd replied. Our ages on this Chinas’ One Hundred Year Marathon, we both will be seventy nine years of age. Less than three decades away.

“See my amigo, we must keep our balance, with our old necks.” Andy said, and everyone laughed. “As of right now, this now, I am content with the Lunatic Express, we will deal with Chinas’ Bullet Trains, when we cross that trestle.”

I hear that, they say there is no food on Chinese Bullet Trains. Redd replied. We having spicy soups, and dumplings on this train.

“21st-century Silk Road, the iron road to Peace?” Boet asked. “Along with our use of green ink, we are beautiful in our colors of gold, crimson, and purple clothes.”

Everyone laughed.

“Silver too Boet.” Andy replied. “Emperorishi.”

“Poetry a powerful force.” Boet added.

When learning something new, one should worry about being unable to reach it. When one has learnt something, one should worry about forgetting it. Redd quoted Confucius. Memoir-memoir.com.

“Yes like fire arms.” Andy replied. “Stop fighting, meaning celebrating violence, and stop eroding the middle class.”

“I agree, and Poetry be a win, win situation.” Boet said.

Andy was thinking, ′What happens to us can not be avoided by anyone but our self, not fully true he thought, he thought. Careless people, Being careless, something we are tell our children not to be, so everyone be, to blame for horrific things in this world. Similar to billiards, professionalism, and slop. Reckless behavior, be mostly everywhere. There are moments reached, and they be a pivoted point of summit you think be your true happiness of life which was to be the best of whatever in the world and nothing more. But when faith, or whatever you wanna call it, show you the other path. The path you truly struggle to accept and understand. Path that leads you to happiness you never thought you were supposed to have with someone that you clearly never imagined having before. So being careless, and closed minded, beware, what many of us could never forgive ourselves and accept. So we have shattered mirror universes caused by careless assholes, numb skulls, unsoulful no minds.

Andy and the crew looked around, and Andy thought again about what all of this means, to him, Redd, and Boet, furthermore what it means to the Poets, Poetry and the world? Was it be best to be public, or private. He also thought about his family, what it meant to them? He thought about this too, internal fire alarms to guard the soul, to protect himself from the fires of sadness, and anger.

Redd look at Andy and said, Be strong in the tidal waves of engulfing life my friend.

“Poetry Train, the television series, and the movie.” Andy said, “To name something be to bring it to life, quoting Owour.” Andy and Poet James Harmon too have been in talks for awhile, now in how the world be in a mess, the wisdom of true American Natives, and extinctions. Andy tied knots with his string. Thinking, within the clock of time, there be all chaos and no rhyme. Mostly, why won’t those who are in the grips of a fatal confusion about the nature of time, awake?

There be always something to do, to make the world a better place. Redd Stated, For Poetry, new Poets, veteran Poets, and all people in general.

“We are searchers, with plans to help with your plans.” Andy replied. “Before I get buck, and wheat over some ten year old Poetry Land Stuff, and Sling Love/Ladders/Ropes/Tape Measures/POETRY/WISDOM all over the Compass.

I want to make this clear I shall not go to the grave as a Chump, I lived on these lands long enough to see through all BS - H-Crap, and we, we have solutions, and we ride with th’Jesse James Gang (Original Family) so if you can’t hump truth step out th’way... More, SHALLI have to lick stamps and send them away I shall, more lay on the LIBRARY OF CONGRESS GATES I SHALL... White House h-crap too- Not to many many can hand to hand combat say Roofing ST. Pauls Cathedrals so shut up. Goes for all you candy ass webmasters and what the ever stands in the way for a better EARTH/YOUTH. And I am sick of BADGES never looking me in the eyes... Underlined WORDS. Aint tagging no H-Crap! You have nothing to teach lay down! We, Redd Regatta, Andy Sandihands, and Boet Luve Duve of poetrytrain.com &&& we are searching for the poem and poet- Amerika poem by Abzein Alawy or Abzein Alway, he works at a Kenya Museum tell him this when you see him.

“It would be nice to tag your followers here on Facebook, to let them know we know we are aware of them following, any way, maybe this post with reach up there...” Boet added. “Hi there staff riders, we appreciate you riding the Poetry Train... As you can see everyone we have touched the Facebook ceiling of likes over three years ago, sometimes we can boost one sometimes not, that maybe because ones we have been erased or shutdown, so if we can’t like and only follow, it be because they need a ceiling that needs a new rebuild... Same as twitter, makes no sense to us, has to be cyber wires” Boet laughed, Anyway, here paste your page on our walls, on Twitter, SEND SWARMS of POETS. POETRY READERS/LISTENERS, RAILROADERS, MOVIE PEOPLE to the page AND FOLLOW, simple... Over loaded our email, because y’all there be no excuse to make the world a better place.

They thought about the Greta Thumberg movement, The Climate Strike. Little lady is the World leader, and we were first to think it, write about, and we are sure some one will figure this out too, and post it.

Andy thought about this too, and said, “The Alphabet alone be a formal education, mastering it and all. Also I would break peoples jaws for Greta for free, and let judgement day come.”

“We are searchers, searching for searchers, not planners looking for or at planners with plans that have the world in a landfill,” Boet said... “Let us put it this way, if we were ‘not’ on top of our searching skill we would not found song writer, Fiona Hare, and her music, so this be the thing, and this be the Poetry Train searching Poets that have searched the wisdom, and have something beautiful and powerful to bring...

Andy whistled Fiona Hares’ song, ’This is the Thing.”

“Kenya has not sent you packing.” Moses said, “Kenyan intellectuals have never been kind to foreigners of more superlative endowments as Poet Taban Lo Liyong proclaims.”

“Poor Poets in Kenya are asking for help from the elite, and the government.” Boet said.

“From what we have learned Boet it could be a good thing or a bad thing.” Andy replied, “Also Boet it be a what you know and who you know type of deal. My opinion be, best to go solo, enhance your skills, train like a literary athlete, and take no H-crap from no one. EVER!”

Reddiscovery Redd-Alert, Redd said, in talks with Poet Kenialainen Adrian Onyando, asking Redd about the Poetry E Train.

REDDISCOVERY REDD-ALERT

by Redd Regatta of Poetry Train

a Paul Revere - Beastie Boy Parody

Now it be a long stories that we show and tell

About three Grand Poets the world needs to know so well

It started way back in history,

with them rhyming Poets Charlie, Redd Regatta, and me Andy

We have a mega horsey named Poetry Train

Just us and our e-iron horsey and we’re finding names.

Ridin’ cross the e-land, kickin’ up e-dust

Sheriff’s posses on our tail cuz we’re more than just

Three lonely Poets we be

Along with all Poets, knows writers are lonely

The moon is beatin’ down on our note and pad

But we don’t look at that because we have been wisdom had

Lookin’ for Poets, night and day

We like them all made from clay

We listen to the Poems all that show and tell

Ten years on the run, and we’re living well

The Poetry, at hand, be always on our brains

It be all the wise words, twisting rhymes, we know that Poets reign

Readers want to know

We said we have tickets to the show

They too can run

And have grande fun

Quick on the draw, we are all alive

All through time we are a Poetry hive

Jimmy New Orleans, and USA want us dead

Now we are Poetry Train and we have soul and will

I think you know what time it is, it’s time to get ill.

So what do we have here?

Poetry inlaws and no fear

We run this land, you understand, We make ourselves clear

We stepped into the wind, Poetry our gun, we have to grin.

They think our story’s over, but it’s ready to begin.

Now we have Poetry America, and we paid our due

The world got two choices of what you can do

It’s not a tough decision as you can see

We can blow the away or they can ride with we

They said, “We’ll ride with you if you can get us to the border.

The Sheriff’s after us because have new Poetry, and a bill of order

We did it like this, we did it like that.

We did it with Canadian Bob cat, named SCRATCH!

So we’re on the run, no one takes our guns

And all about now it’s time to have some fun

Andy Sandihands that is my name

and we are reading and listening because we have campaign

We rode for ten years and we hit the spots

The Poetry be something and we never get got

There’s dudes always starin’ like they knows who we are

We took the all spots next to all at the top bar

Redd said “There’s Doom, Dread and their sister Danger

I said yes tell them all about he Danger

Redd said, “Get ready, cuz this ain’t funny

My name is Redd R and we’re bout to get money

Pulled out the movie people, aimed it at the sky

We yelled, “Stick ’em up!” Let’s Poetry Train fly

Hands went in and dug deep into their back pocket

The Poetry Train took over the cinema, and locked it

“I’m Andy and we get respect.

We want out spot and that’s what we expect

The Railroad was with it, and that’s our our ace

so we grabbed the Railroaders and took over the place

The Railroaders loved it and the movies began

No one had beef, because it be the best plan

Charlie grabbed the money, Jesse James snatched the gold

We grabbed all the Poets and this be the story told

Poet Adrian Onyando, replied, Thanks so much for the tags and info, Poetry Train, You’re doing much for poetry and keep on! We are together in this.

Andy loves Poet Adrian Onyando story, Redd posted.

TILL THE GROKE FALLS IN LOVE

“Yes I do,” Andy replied, “I have a video idea for the story, and would love to make a video for it.”

“Should we tell Poet Adrian Onyando?” Boet asked.

Sure. Redd replied. He found you by accident. Andys’ keen mind, and eye seen you, yep

Glad he did too.

“Canadian Poet Bob McKenzie needs us.” Andy said, “Bob MacKenzie I can make a video like I did for Mathias Safari here, and use all of your editing posts and urls if you would let me... Need maybe some audio of you doing a presentation of such for what you want to do, in services for Writers.”

“He untagged us Andy.” Boet said. “Also it says, no posts in common.”

Redd looked at Andy, and shook his head, and said, Maybe he is ticked because we misunderstood him about poems he submitted to be in Poetry Train Canada.

“Maybe not Redd, last time I seen Dimebag Darrell alive...” Andy said, “Darrell was in th’zone, and still be... So moral of the post be, when you have someone who be th’real deal on your team, do not get it twisted... Train to be a great writer, and be.”

Redd shook his head, and said, I hear that said the deaf man.

“The new dawn be here, aka Prosperity Road,.” Boet said. “Guarded by what Poets that are true? Sure has been a lunatic express like time.”

“Boet play Planet Rock by Afrika Bambaataa & The Soul Sonic Force for us.” Andy requested, and took out his two pencils, and jammed to the beat.

“10/4.” Boet replied. “HEY Poets dance with words and letters too, recall, get on the page floor.”

“Don’t look at the moon!” Andy stated.

Everyone on the train, got up, and did their own boogie.

Andy and Redd looked at each other, and smiled because they always knew, Poetry and Dancing were so so so kewl!

“What?” Boet asked.

Poetry and Dancing are so so so kewl! Redd replied.

“Amazing stack talk right there.” Boet replied. “It takes three to carry us, and Poetry.”

Shh, it be a secret Boet. Redd replied.

Boet looked out the windows and imagined all Poets walking up a ladder, the ladder to beknownst.

Andy looked around, and everyone were dancing, not looking at the moon, best more, was they were the Word-Nauts too, and they knew after we were in passing, new Word-Nauts would find us all.

Andy was thinking about being brave, and Redd the same along with being be glowing courage. Speaking for the Alphabets, the Bushes, all that be righteous.

Andy stood up, spoke, and posted... “We shall prevail Great Poets in-tune with this planet and etc &c... Rest, and dream... Forgive, and Throw away!! Let not a person, or thing damage your love and imaginations... Be not smothered, be not blank, take notes, use the gift of memory to rise... Protect your soul, and voice... Praise your fellow Poets, praise the ones coming to stand next to you... Praise your readers, and listeners... Poetry has no boundaries, none... Tame -less as in Tes tame less ment, as Ngugi Wa Thiong‟o, spoke true Poets and Readers will find you, Time will find you too...”

“In a country well governed, poverty is something to be ashamed of. In a country badly governed, wealth is something to be ashamed of.” Moses quoted Confucius,

“Looks to me, politics here, have American Railway pasta brains.” Andy replied. “X marks the spot on this land of the skull. Beat games, games beat, same beat, same game, sad.”

Moses reminded us of Abdilatif Abdalla’s Peace Love and Unity for Whom?

“I refuse to enter my brain
And ask it to entertain
Even the sound of the idea, that our loves should entwine.
Because what by “Love” you define
Doesn’t tally with mine...”

Andy laughed, “Well now this be seems, the cases.”

Boet found the crew Babbel.com, and said, “Founded in 2007, Babbel is the world’s first language learning app. A leader in the online language learning industry, Babbel is an international success with millions of active subscribers and ranked as the world’s #1 innovative company in education.”

Fine be we shall be not climbing any towers. Redd replied.

Everyone laughed, but not Andy and Redd, they knew they were still the band on the run. Boet knew they we not playing around too.

Movie Producer Segun Williams be on the Train... Redd said, We travel these e-routes through U.S.A. - Canada - and now Africa, in e-Kenya, and we gather great people in the arts. We also come to know, many people are going through many things, many we are close to. All We can say, wish there was a cure for cancer, maybe one day there will be... Segun Williams on the train, faiths of prayers needed... for he, and so many others we are very close to... We do our best to make the world a better place...

Boet played the films, ‘The Secret Princess’ and ‘African Tales.’

Oh we have background noise. Redd stated.

“Oh and we have internal noise.” Andy stated.

Everyone laughed.

Thinking!

Writing!

Flow!

Train flow!

“High -n- low!” Andy added. And we know, interruptions well, and it be all, swell!

Everyone laughed.

“Ya ya that, setting our feet into the waters of Time.” Andy said. “Early birds, sing, as we mentioned before Poets are like birds, and also as WordSlinger says, Poets Are Like Chinese Fighting Fish.”

Day in, and day out, from town to town. Redd added.

“Word!” Boet replied.

“Poet Cynthia Amoah says Artists should be paid.” Moses added.

She isn’t the only one. Redd replied. That true literary unity, to demand, someday, the rest of days, supply! Recalls us to Richard Wright, so let us listen to Professor Amy Hungerford again, before we get to Fort Jesus.

Legacies within legacies. Redd stated, Strains within Gods’ prism. Reader what do you feel? How does all of the about this Poetry Train appeal? Records of lives, indeed.

Andy and Missouri Poet & Artist Olan L. Smith are talking together about his art portraits of originalpoetry.com Poets, and, “Wow” Andy told him. Every one be beautiful, and he plans to have a show in October of 2020, so that would mean, the Poetry Train crew would have to fly back to the U.S.A. For the event, an event they could not miss because Olan and these Poets were close to Andy and Redd. Andy told him, when ready, he would create a promotional video for Olans portraits of modern Poets, and every Poet he paints should contact their state post office master, and release the beauty of each of these Poets so when that pass away. The Portriats of each Poet becomes a U.S.A. Postal stamp, further imortalzing them.

“I bet you two are happier traveling all these years, than material wealth.” Boet stated.

Redd and Andy gave Boet a high 5!

“Shall anyone asks Boet, tell them you a Poet told us that.” Andy said.

Everyone laughed, and Andy went to get drinks and munchies. Everyone was relaxed, and happy as a team. Andy returned, and said, “It be great avoiding the pitfalls of humanity, and I love it.”

Everyone laughed.

Boet said, “Found more wisdom.”

Everyone smiled. Redd and Andy looked at each other and knew Boet was lit, not only by literature but by love too. By poems, and soems, and maybe Poet Namasti Lukoye.

“Sup Boet?” Andy asked, and laughed.

“Poet Eddy Ongili.” Boet replied, and spoke, “Eddy says so much Redd and Andy.”

Ha ha love this mans thinking, what a tank, send him a friend request Boet, Redd said, and laughed.

“Here be some things.” Boet spoke, “S.T. Coleridge surmised a Poet as “an undevout to be an impossibility” this means anyone purporting to be a Poet should partake in reading and writing as a daily and communal endeavor.”

Yes!

Boet looked at everyone, and continued. “It is important to note that times have changed and Poets no longer derive the amount of respect back in ages, when like gods, they were revered and sort after for guidance. Their bustling prophet hood provided answers to many questions.”

Andy winked at Boet.

“Poet Eddy Ongili also says,” Boet continued, “Coleridge foresaw this and declared “I wish our clever young Poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and Poetry; that is prose; words in their best order: – Poetry; the best words in the best order.” Sometimes all it needs is a little bit of concentration per se.” Boet reads through Eddys’ The State of Poetry and Spoken word in Kenya”

“It is therefore upon us to explore what ails Poetry internationally and nationally.” Boet smiled. “He says, A woman once noted that her hate for the much publicized Slam emanates from the evidence that “a bunch of college kids try to sound like a hysterical woman.”

Andy looked at Redd, and they recalled what many Poets of the page said too, similar.

Boet continued, “Eddy says he has always been attracted to double-mindedness, to art that indulges, rather than seek for acceptance. As a reader, I am enthralled in ambivalence, in thriving magnanimity in multiple often challenging situations.”

“Gents, he brings us to other modern souls of wisdom now.” Boet said.

Okay, go slow, because we have time. Redd replied, and smiled.

“Eddy Ongili is on the Poetry Train.” Boet said. “Oh, wow, his poem, ‘Dear Poetry’ is intense. So be his Poems, ‘Insurrection’ and October Remembers’.

Andy listened to Boet, and said, “Also Eddy Ongili be Hilarious, Masterful! His Strange and or Common behaviors of Poets I know (Me included ?) be grand, and everyone wants us to make a video of this write.

The Poet Richard Dorian from Canada and got the Poetry Train crew an interview on the Canadian Literary website, South Branch Scribbler. A website owned and operated by Author Allan Hudson, and they were asked about the Poetry Train, and their reply was.

That be a long long story, the Poetry Train its self. The story begins in the first book and beginning of the chapters, so one would have to read the book to answer that. To much to carry here. We can say this. We are glad it fell upon our lap. We never dreamed of writing a novels like this. Historical fiction blended with non-fiction, and written documentation. Poetry History, Railroad history, and Publishing History, Writing and Copyright history, all braided, and we love that term braided, braiding all that and time. We are happy it came upon us, because it gives us more purpose in life. Important purpose. We believe in God and God answered our prayers, so we can say that for sure. What we love about most be, the each and every Poet and Persons soul and wisdom that gave and give to this world. The rising chapters creates a realm we call it, a world many Poets know that should be, not the world as we know it. Each Poet and Person bring life to it and much more... Many Poets understand the Poetry Train, and they know we are on a literary rescue mission of sorts. The books are at the Library of Congress, and all data is on the net. This way future generations get to ride the Poetry Train. Our goal be to keep it rolling, currently in E- Africa, and also Poetry Train movies, film, series etc &c. Because the world needs it, seriously needs it... One day it shall come to be too.

Andy has been studying on the side great American storytellers, and the Nashville Fugitives, because he wants to know so much about wisdom, for a better world, and better writing, promoting, and screenwriting. The author Erskine Caldwell touched him harder so far, because Erskine Caldwell has two novels turned into films, ‘Gods Acre,’ and “Tobacco Road.′ Gods Acre be brilliant to Andy, but more than that, Erskine Caldwell wisdom about English, and words, the power between the written, and the spoken, furthermore the opposition of so called literary opinions after an author dies. Erskine Caldwell wasn’t to happy with the films when he was alive, and to Andy they are better than people say. Andy also loves to play the card game rummy, and Andy believes Erskine Caldwell does too, because the wisdom of the games comes out in his writing, so Andy ordered the novels to read, to see the difference. Andy posted on this, and shared, Listening one more time before we lay e-rail, because because, all the beautiful rising, the rising things the rising does- Most Poetry Train passengers know what that means, wisdom of the realm, a puzzle piece, and material for the battle, once they get to England years from now. The man said, he recorded what he heard and saw, showing that current reality as it was. In fact, he proved his point, there won’t be no PEACE without out conflict in the world, in other words, no one in true heart spanked your ass, or spanked your ass in truth... Hilarious, H-crap, any way taking note, with we Buck with Royalty England that be...ya ya- He be a Rype Writer you hear, Read? His movies actually kick freaking H-crap ASS!”

Andy took more notes, and looked at Redd, and said, “What people want, be not adult, political, or religia-o films. They need, and want the literary arts, spoken or oral. Spoken or oral be quicker, than the written, although written sticks if wrote correctly, same would be if written, directed, and produced correctly. Wrote, spoke, so pro prot, proke, protey, touche, Camera, action, okay, oh ya! Hey, we are aloud to play with the English language because it be designed to play with us. Me, I am on language patrol. Erskine Caldwell was a times and place recorder. Sadly he doesn’t believe in peace. Now listen, Once peace, and peace people truly believe peace can be achieved, peace shall be. From my studies, peace must kill conflict, acts one, two, and three. Act 0, this new reality must take over, the new reality. As Robert Anton Wilson says, reality be what you get away with. Examples of this be, true reality shows, and as Mathias be pointing to, also. Raw, seeded, story seeded, life right seeded, power into-improv on this train, place to place. Let us call this the Tidy Zero! Poetryanda if ya want ta!”

When the Poetry Train crew finally arrived at the Mombasa Train Station, they felt as though they were on another planet. To them the train ride was one of the most memorable adventures of their lives. Their private rooms had a window that opened, allowing them to stick their heads out the train and watch the moon and shadows as they crossed the African Savannah by night. In the morning, breakfast in the dining car was adorned with Giraffes and Zebras running alongside the train. It was un-forgettable, pleasant and comfortable!

As they put their luggage on a cart to wait on Uber-Horses and a buggy to go to Fort Jesus, Andy looked around, free styled Poetry, applying old English. Because everyone were on their cell phones.

“A monster you are creating, and why aren’t there Poetry book vending machines? Looky here everyone cell phones were meant to save lives not destroy life, and we are facing the greatest fight in history, climate change.”

Space, space space

Pace, pace, pace

Peace, peace, peace

The English school men, shall twattle

About the Poetry Train, the up and coming battle

Our new Poet Elflock, to begin a new brabble

The coming of overmorrow to end this widdendream rattle

This be no hugger mugger, we have a WordSlinger slugger

And this be really nice, this be gorgonise, even twice

We are boldy boldy boldy, shall you not listen

Your political chambers shall become moldy moldy

So now, do not say, we all, have not told thee

What, are you Italian now? Redd asked Andy.

“Ya, you know me, hitting like a Kenya Lion,

although a Poet Battalion Sir Redd.” Andy replied.

Everyone began to kench, and kench, and kench, furthermore people began to constellate because they heard this to be wonderful.

“The Climate Change monster,” and Andy thought about Harrison Fords speech on climate change. Andy looked at everyone and said, “Animal agriculture is the Elephant in the room that is the primary contributor to greenhouse gas emissions. It’s not a matter of opinion, it’s a matter of scientific fact. Most of humanity are destroying themselves, the creatures and the planet we live on. If any other single organism did that we would call it a plague. Everyone, everyone,” Andy looked at the crew, and said, “Engage the art of listening you all, for oral evidence.” Andy looked around with a sense to find, and for sure not be in a white grave, even though whites are known as red strangers, it was ironic because here was Redd, and Andy was a red stranger and not Redd, and Redd knew this too. Unlike then back in the 1900′s Andy and Redd were Poet watchers and Poem hunters, not ivory-hunters or so called bird watchers, although they wished people paid attention to the extinction studies happening.

Boet and the Uber Horses company spoke, and they got the beautiful animals ready for them, and a wagon.

Cool was cool but riding horse back on the streets of Mombasa was better than cool. They rode under giant crossed Elephant tusks, and along the coast. Mango trees, and coconut trees caught their attention, and bamm, there. This was all a lifeful journey. They thought about memoir-memoir.com, and ‘West of the Night by Beryl Markham’ so they looked up at the sky, and all that took flight here too.

Graffiti and stray cats were everywhere, and they too were prowling this beautiful place, driven by and for wisdom in this kaleidoscope day, and mental graffiti were all over their minds, as similar to an Angelic Calvary embracing this new time, and memory. This was an African happiness only Africa earth could share. They knew too, they were mythical people to the small minded, but a large surprise to the walleted, only shall they open their eyes, and they loved it. Because they the Poetry Train crew were pushing history from the back, from the bottom and the top, and from the front.

“Listen my new friends, we must not be lunch, do not shoot, unless it be a camera, take your meds, beware of al Shabaab zones, and more on that later.” Moses said, and they all looked and each other , and kenched aka laughed. “No selfies, no smoking, and no offending the locals, or litter. Do not feed the animals.”

Moses, you should know by now, we do not take people or things for granted. Redd stated.

“Um yes Sir.” Moses replied.

They made it to into Fort Jesus, and they whispered to each other, as we know, pretend we are fish in a world of coral.

Andy kenched, and said, “We must keep a close eye on those who can’t swim or weak swimmers.”

Yes, we must throw Poetry at them, and not go to them. Redd replied. Similar to well, show, and tell, to throw, and save, Poetry a life saver, so get braver.

Boet kenched.

This same scenario plays out hundreds of times all over the world. Redd stated, A parent or guardian loses track of the literary arts and they and their children wind up in a dangerous situation.

“So Poetry is a ladder?” Boet asked.

Indeed!

Before they entered the fort they looked at the Kilindini Harbour. They looked at all the sea vessels. Tents and Traders were everywhere.

Andy looked at them as they got off their horses and spoke-

As in gossip, scorn and black black iron metal paint

True Poets know what’s up, on who be and who the hell aint

Bunches of hunches leaves the Devil many soulful lunches.

Criminal subhuman criminals have become slick and sly

They look like police dicks and the mighty politician lie

When you jump off the train please land in the grass

Because the gravel folks crunches your fake or real ass...

Everyone kenched, and kenched, and they a rubba, scubba arrived, finally in Fort Jesus, thank Jesus.

“Spooky, it is for Déjà vu rookies.” Boet stated, and kenched.

They thought of the view from above, the Kenya skull, and now, Fort Jesus the shape of a man, lying on his back, with his head towards the sea.

Andy ran away as he yelled out, “Last one to the cannons, be a rotten politician,” so they all looked at each other, and followed Andy running as fast as they could. Once there they looked out over the waters, and could see why this Fort was built here. The view could see ships coming from far away. They felt this beautiful place.

Redd walked to the gift shop that use to be the forts kitchen. Boet and Moses made lunch, and Andy studied the area, eye balled the sea, the coasts, the vessels, and the buildings pondering all life, comparing history, and what be best, best for the Poetry Train crew. A quick bite to eat nourished this moment.

“Oh found!” Andy said to himself, and thought in question how important was he to the woman he loved, unlike the woman he loved who gave Andy his heart rock, this new love, and woman touched him differently, but as all great writers, sorrow made the art, and doing this everyday was Andys life, and he wished all understood the worlds that jolted him, and it seems all sacrifices Andy made only made ground with the future, what Andy and Redd call the Wicked Papoose Caboose, as in since day one, as he and Redd knew in their intuitional gut, these dreams shall come true.

Andy snapped out of those thoughts because regardless, he knew where his love be, and shall always be. “OH FOUND, and keep shaking the train.” Andy said, and kenched, although knowing this feeling before, a feeling he mentally laid upon a divine shore, where he had faith a Angel would find, and bring it to God, and to Andy, it meant he wasn’t senseless to the gifts of love and life.

Andy touched all the 18th Century doors, then again he knew people from the far future would ride the Poetry Train, and enter these doors of Poetry, and Literary Arts.

Andy! Redd yelled for them all. Boet! Moses! Come in here, look at the 17th Century ancient graffiti of dhows, and ships, and fishes.

“Mvita!” Moses said, “Carpe Diem!”

“Poetry, literary arts, and new movies be only limited by human imagination, and heart, furthermore, same as true love.” Andy stated as he ran his hand over all of the ships on the wall. “Poet rights, same as animal rights, the further we move forward and onward, we become upward, as Mark Heidelberger the movie producer says, talent will eventually surface up! So keep the confidence, and keep learn’n.”

They all smiled. Redd spoke, One day, there will be holographic Poets, Poets of the past, now, and future. A holographic Poetry Train too.

“Clothing too, as WordSlinger predicted in 2005.” Andy replied. “Dinky dinky dink, cannon ball poems, made of green ink!”

Everyone kenched.

“Let’s observe the skeletons now, buried in dirt but cased in glass.” Boet suggested. “They are replicas over the top of the true bones.”

Once there they thought about astronauts coming to earth, and if humanity doesn’t change its ways, there will be nothing but earths’ life skeletons everywhere, and surely no form of life will care for replicas for life beings that cared less for its home, and its life.

Redd ran away, and yelled, Last one to the top of the Forts’ watch tower be a dirty politician.

Once there they observed the chapel, and the relieving waste faculties. The Museum use to be the soldier barracks, so there they examined great artifacts.

Boet ran away, and yelled out, “Last one to touch the vigango be a dirty politician,” so they all ran as fast as they could to touch the vigango. It is believed that the artifacts represent spirits of spiritual leaders. As they ran Moses wanted to get deep, and tell them, but they knew that people here think the American Empire be crumbling and white people are demons. Although they knew all about divide and conquer tactics. People call the US, the united snakes, and the crew knew this too, respect your neighbor and love your neighbor, was what the world needed to implement.

Andy slowly touched the engravings on the cannons, and touched the 1811. He ran away, and yelled out, “The last one to the train station be a dirty rotten, chicken shit literary arts publisher.”

They all kenced, and kenced as they ran back to the train station.

As they got there Andy said, “Poetry and so many other things can trigger waves of grief, and then again Poetry and many other things can bring on relief. Waves of pace, waves of pace, so it be okay to feel down, because as wise folk say, once down there’s only way up to go, or find a compass and sideways cup. Ha ha.. Mathias, people alive are listening, and agree, so tell all of our past away loved ones, Poetry be peace!”

Everyone looked at each other, and smiled. Andy kenched, and said, “The un-witnessing are beginning to be witnessing. The Tidy Zero be all that be counting! Poetry, the truth-making apparatus, recall, without badd ass Poets the world shall rust! This wisdom be shattering, poisonous knowledge, in that we trust. Ya ya this non-formal Poetry Train college.”

Redd chorused in, Yes, right now, this be a literary renaissance right now.

“Super Poets, super ghosts, salute, a toast.” Andy added, “Right now, this be a literary renaissance right now.”

“So as in spears, a Poets Poems be a symbol of their blood and emblem?” Boet asked.

They all looked at each, and smiled.

Redd recited their poem,

BEYOND THE FOOTHILLS OF OGUN

When the

daughters of Creation

were young, they would run

through the woods of Ogun

They would dance and laugh

They knew who they were

They smiled as they sat down

with their tablets and crowns

And the gap from time in all now

opened up for eternity to allow

and they spoke to Ogun’s Owl

You most beautiful, O’ jowl

for those rustling with their heart

No shadow or snow can hide them

Not even the brightness of night

You noiseless and soft in flight

Capture them, bring them to sight

to the inspiring well, the cloth light

Blend in, and follow us forever,

and those who are true know

where we dwell, protect them:

And the Owl

moved his jowl

and spoke poetry-

hoo hoo hoa

At the Train Station The Poetry Train Crew huddle up, pulled out a map, a reading map, not some GPS app map crap trap. An Atlas. They also took notes. Because as they learned from many, it was Erskine Caldwell that spoke of language of peace words, besides HOW... They are going to have to learn Arabic to move forward... Peace words, along with love words.

They recalled too, and spoke together about, Poet Mbizo Chirasha said they were brave for coming to Africa, well this be where more than brave kicks in, to kick in the doors of envy, as a Rhino Poet that be not playing around, so many say we are in this together, and together we shall rise, recall now pal and pals, where they heavens be you at?...

“We got this, Tower of Babel what, Pen ta cost, pencil cost, laptop cost, data cost, we going places because we do not envy, boss.” Andy spoke.

Oral culture, print culture, digital culture, soon hologram culture. Redd added. So Poets have you all made a name for yourselves? Can you exclude yourselves from Muse of Poetry. The being and name of Poetry? NO, so unity be? Lone Wolf Rights, all this H-crap created us, to bring it back to equalize the literary arts rights, a unity in no error. Fair be fair, we have Poetry Train free fare...

“Gods’ mind, heart, and soul prism be real.” Andy said, “Once people realize this real beauty and love will flourish. A Unity in no error!”

“Didn’t Jim Morrison, say something like this?” Boet asked.

“True Poets are no babbling idiots, they know true salvation.” Andy replied. “For me the Tower of Babel was named wrong, it be the Tower of Envy. Five to one, baby one and Five, The Tidy Zero be no Jive. Come on!”

“So the ballroom days are over?” Boet asked, and everyone kenched. “Amazes me in how Poets are so intelligent.”

“Druch Druch Druch, Dr-dr-dr druch, Druch Druch, WATCH!” Andy spoke!

As Redd and Andy gone over maps, Boet doing his work, brought out, and up Poet and Author Binyavanga Wainaina, and importantly, The expressed aim of the ICC Witness project, to speak for and with witnesses who have been intimidated into silence. The “ICC” refers to the “International Criminal Court,” where be pending against the crimes against humanity.

Moses added to, “We can’t forget, Veena Das, Silence becomes what anthropologist Veena Das calls “poisonous knowledge,” in which containing the knowledge of the violation, in silence, is itself the expression of that knowledge.”

“What this be means, be, using be as Andy would, We are on the correct path.” Boet replied. “Although we must add, and taste the wisdom spice of Binyavanga Wainaina., The reality constructed by stories.”

Moses is learning now that the Poetry Train be a digital artifact, or a digital archive, or a digital project, although all three, and for sure the historical.

After listening to Binyavanga Wainaina, Andy spoke, “He knows, story tracks, the babel, and well, he also maybe saying there are robo-Poets too.”

Everyone kenched.

“Not their fault, though, they been mislead, talvez-maybe, mayhaps-perhaps.” Andy replied.

“WORD!”

We are going to have to stay, study, do something because Veena Das has keys, wisdom, so let us ponder. Redd added.

“Binyavanga Wainaina has shattered media distortion.” Moses said.

“He couldn’t find a Kenya publisher so he had to go online, and so much more as to where Africa be one, but continue to divide itself, and mostly do not pretty up ugly, and do not make ugly beautiful. His masterful essay of satire “How to Write About Africa” changed the way we all should look at, and write about Africa” Andy said. “Similar to what Susan Sontag revealed in her book ‘On Photography’ the Poet be the real camera.”

“What do you all say we spend the night on the Old Harbour north of the island?” Andy asked...

They all smiled, and gained some magical energy...

“Ronald Harold Hardy, everyone, recall Ronald Harold Hardy.” Andy stated, “True dhows, true hows, we must rig ourselves for the sea, as life be rigged from the divine, in a good way, and rigged in a bad way by humanity.”

The Uber Horses were great, and Mr. Horse Power, Andy called the man responsible for the horses, and their destination was an interesting chap.

Andy petted his horse, and spoke, “Mr. Horse Power, it has been a delightful trot to Fort Jesus, and back, you are a grando coachman. The state chariot was great, suspension, whension son. Ha ha.” Andy laughed, and Redd smiled mega more than he ever has in his beautiful life.

Andy looked at his horse, “You are a real rocking horse. I bet you are hungry, so are we. Mr. Horse Power, do you all have double decker stage coaches?”

The Railway texted me, and said our train cargo car of books is safe, and being shipped to X marks the spot. Redd added.

“Word!, oh do you have gig carriages? So we can race, ha ha.” Andy said, and all kenched.

“What we do not have Sir, Sandihands be and American concord coach.” Mr. Horsepower stated.

The barouche be cool. Redd stated.

“We have the Brougham Carriage, the Victoria, and the Phaeton.” Mr. Horsepower said, “A new shipment of the Rockaway Carriages are coming soon.”

“That a boy!” Andy replied. “No texting, and riding, as you rock away!” Andy proclaimed, and everyone kenched. “In all out get out and ride, we love love- the Conestoga Wagon, we like Cowboys, and Indians.”

“Yes Sir!” Mr. Horsepower replied. “I like the American stage coach.”

“This be smart, there are people in the U.S.A. That want to bring this back, and there are people slaughtering them, what mess.” Andy stated.

Boet laughed as he petted his horse, and spoke, “You know horses are smarter than people. You never heard of a horse going broke betting on people. To quote Will Rogers.”

“We here had to do something, in all this energy transitions happening. Plus we are a wild life continet anyway.” Moses said.

“Right, trying to stay right in this place of history.” Andy replied. “Horses be a living machine of greater good, similar to Poets, and similar we don’t get paid for it. So where do we invest Mr. Horsepower?”

Everyone kenched.

“Here be your tip, and we understand, and here is a tip for the dung crew, if it wasn’t for them, and a crew like us, we couldn’t make the world a better place.” Andy said with delightful power, “Not a quick fix, but a fix, a real fix that something was broke a long long time ago.”

They all gathered their things, and Andy said, “We Poets, Irish and American Native Poets have something in common.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Horsepower asked,

“We are untamable, but civilized, and we see into the camera eye, because we are the camera.” Andy replied, “Good Day-, oh The American Amish can make you all the coaches and wagons you desire. Most of all purchase train loads of American Horses, save them from being slaughtered, okay.”

We must gather water, because we are going to foot it from here team for bit then sail north. Redd said, Take off your shoes, tie them together, and attach them to your back packs. We are moving forward with only what we can carry. The paths here for years have been beaten by naked feet, and we shall get thirsty. Me and Andy have mentally charted this, and compassed by instinct and tradition. Amaze the gaze, gaze to be amazed.

“The sphere, the sphere, the influence, the influence.” Andy said with glee. “So you know gents, Redd here be using Frederick Lugard, 1st Baron Lugard google goggles but in a good way, and in reverse, check please.”

“I got us coffee, and bayobob treats for the trek.” Boet said.

Moses laughed. “1st Baron Lugard was a wicked soul. Rest in pieces until your people amend what you destroy in Africa.”

“Let’s go, we have a sail boat BBQ to get to, me Andelay Andy today.” Andy said, and laughed. “Good bye, Rift Valley, sure was a blast. Maybe we will need ‘Simba’ the armoured train where we are going. Or a Cambodian Bamboo train.”

Did you know Andy be a master at pin the tail on the donkey? Redd asked.

And they all laughed.

“Yes indeed, and we travel for Poetry.” Andy stated as they walked strong to the shore of the Indian ocean, that would not be silent, and they would be clothed by a warn breeze. “Also gents, we are writers, essential American, and International employees, and employers, so do not let anyone H-crap you.”

Donkeys and motor bikes were everywhere, and it looked like it was about to down pour rain north of them. When they got to the shore, a man walked up to them with a Siwa side blown horn, a symbol of unity, and the man called to heaven with this horn. It was a beautiful sound, and unlike no other. They thought it would be great for this horn to be a train horn. Sea turtle eggs were hatching everywhere too, amazing they thought, and they thought about Delaware U.S.A.

They turned around at the shores bend to admire Fort Jesus one last time before going to Somalia to Atbara where the Mogadishu -Villabruzzi Railway be.

How! Redd said, as they came up to a man that seemed to be a sail man. We need a Bruzzi sea horse. A dhow master, and a dhow ride to the Shebelle River in Kismayo.

The man looked at Andy, and said, “He be a danger.”

“Everything will be okay Andy, you are not British.” Boet proclaimed. “We will be fine.”

“The Djibouti, Ethiopia, Eritrea and Somalia never bow down to any other people, they are the essence of pride very beneficial against foreigners.” Moses explained. “When I refer to the strength of East African people, these people are brawn and bright in ever aspect. They know their worth and defend it. They have this understanding of “you are no more superior than I” Which gives them their fighting spirit. It’s not a conceited approach, but rather a confident way of thinking and I respect them for that.”

“Cool, Andy replied, “Then we will get along fine. Hey do you think we need to tie a long rope to each of us in case giant waves try to snatch us up, or modern pyrates?”

Everyone kenched. “You all can swim can’t you?” Boet asked.

Yes!

As we said, pretend we are in water. Redd replied.

“Look behind you Redd. Looks like we have a travel companion.” Andy said.

A black and white monkey whom was a Wakaluzu, a Colobus monkey, and he for sure wanted to go with the Poetry Train crew, because his footsteps could be seen all the way to the start of beach where they began to step into the sand.

Which way did he go George? Redd said, and smiled. It is a a lot cooler here than up in those trees isn’t, little fella?

“Bring the little feller with us.” Andy said, and paid the Dhow man, and while the crew loaded up the dhow. This beautiful dhow had a bed, a kitchen, and this was going to be a blast. Andy written a parody with mounds of rocks on the shore.

BOOKS & MOVIES

Read

There’s nothing Wrong with Poets
There’s nothing wrong with POETRY!

Reading why for, why for
I want to read more

(Here we go, here we go, here we go now)

One – Nothing wrong with Books
Two – Nothing wrong with Books
Three – Nothing wrong with Books
Four – Nothing wrong with Books
One – Memoirs of Poets, movies give
Two – Memoirs of Poets, movies give
Three – How many hints do we have to give

Let the books hit the floor
Let movies settle the score
Let the books hit the floor
Let movies settle the score
Let the books hit the floor
Let movies settle the score

Now, Punk me again (again)
This be where we begin
(Here we go, here we go, here we go now)

One – Nothing wrong with Books
Two – Nothing wrong with Books
Three – Nothing wrong with Books
Four – Nothing wrong with Books
One – Memoirs of Poets, movies give
Two – Memoirs of Poets, movies give
Three – How many hints do we have to give

Let the books hit the floor
Let movies settle the score
Let the books hit the floor
Let movies settle the score
Let the books hit the floor
Let movies settle the score

Mind against mind, blood and bone
You’re all by yourself, but you’re not alone
You wanted in and now you’re here
Driven by wisdom, consumed by love

One – Nothing wrong with Books
Two – Nothing wrong with Books
Three – Nothing wrong with Books
Four – Nothing wrong with Books
One – Memoirs of Poets, movies give
Two – Memoirs of Poets, movies give
Three – How many hints do we have to give

Let the books hit the floor
Let movies settle the score
Let the books hit the floor
Let movies settle the score
Let the books hit the floor
Let movies settle the score

(a Parody- Bodies by Drowning Pool)

TO BE CONTINUED... Chapter 14 coming up!


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