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 has lifted his head a few times, and arched his back while asleep, and Jackie, she twicthed 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 is 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 was walking out with Scratch laughing, 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.
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 is 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 is 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 is 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?”
“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, and 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.
In a land caught between
Time and space
Where the books of life lay
This castle of stone
The mountain king roams
All alone in here
But he’s not the only one
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, is 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 is 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.
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 is, 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 is 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 is 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.
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 is 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, 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 sick these types of humans, period, end of story. Sectors of evil is 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 do-” Boet started to say, 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.”
Scratch paced to, and for 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 Jeevanjee 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, 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 that 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 is 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 most 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 is for laughs really, ya ya. Happy Happy principles. Happy Happy scruples. Me, and you all are fiery material, period, ya hear, period.”
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 is 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 were 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.”
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.
“Freeaakkiing 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.
“Is there an evening dance Binti?” Andy asked.
“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 thought, 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.”
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 is 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.”
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, 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.
“Hard choice, wished we could have all three, one each for us.” Boet said.
“I want one too.” Mathias said, “Also I set us up a day to jump off of the falls of Mount Kilimambogo.”
“YES!” Everyone replied in sync.
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, it’s flight time is 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 he laughed, and 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 is 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.”
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 is a coffee delivering drone, 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 is strong. I love that. What I do not love is 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 is a mobile app that recognizes music and T.V, around you. Nothing against music and T.V. the thing is 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 is 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 Michigain.
“I am looking at this Yuneec Typhoon H drone.” Andy said. “Poetry Train drone vlogging fellas. God Bless Kenya is 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 is wackier everyday. No fear, y’all my Poetry is like lasers, I rattle evil people easy, Poet Pilot Andy Sandihands at your service. We real, as said, we aint playin!”
“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 is 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 is 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.” Laughed again. “Most can know little and assume all they want, but we have Jackie, the real Donkey. We know Poetry is 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. We suck up data like the earth sucks life. I may sound cocky, and it is okay, because it too is 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 is fine, we can be invisible too, but we are not hollow spines, comprehende? Talking to any that 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, that 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 is 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 is 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 is 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 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 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 is from many our your human children, along with ours. We need your mighty Angels. Danger is all around us. We see the blood, we see it bleeding from all eyes behind the skin as tears, tears, 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 O-negative blood, 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 is the law, and there is 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 are 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 tameless Andy.”
“He also says, the Irish were more advanced at literature too.” Boet added.
“My memory is a gift beyond beyond.” Andy replied. “Tameless so timeless.”
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 Poet was 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 is book stuffing? Well it says here, book stuffing is 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.
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 is 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 is 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 is, 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, 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 are, 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.
“Kenya 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 U.S. And China in a battle for 5G domination. Driverless cars, and I find this strangly odd, driverless cars anyway ya think? Ha ha. Maybe closer the Poet Igloo Bill anyway, Ha ha. America maybe going on the cyber defensive but their Poets sure have not, Ha ha. An inttelligence collection of what? Military what, good God almighty, where and the Heaven is 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 it is viewed it does not register a view if you are those that like numbers, 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 is 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 fo 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. 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 one., Hello?” Andy added. “Still there is 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 folk, 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 is 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.
“Trying to awake to calm, another trade of storm chasing.” Andy replied. “The place to live is 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.
“Cool.” Andy replied, “Yes, had a fabulous birthday, what’s funny is 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.”
“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 Nairobi 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 is 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?”
“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 is capturing it all with heart and soul, period, furthermore safeguarding.” Andy stated. “Be, and stay neo in all langauge 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 is 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.”
“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.”
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, rememnering 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 is 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.
“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 is 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 is 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.
“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 a believer 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 opiinion, 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 is 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 the University wanted WordSlinger in 1989, he was shining bright even then, but he declined to be 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 is 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 is 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.
“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 is 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.
“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.
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.”
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 are 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 the 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.”
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 good, way to good 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.”
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.
“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... Jingle 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.”
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 do build up newly the 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, and Ruth Gilmore Ingulsrud.
“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.”
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. “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 Mosed 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 60 acres. The acclaimed wildlife photographer, Peter Beard then gifted them 40 acres of his hog ranch, bringing the total acreage to 115. 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 and 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. 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.
“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, 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 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 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, and 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 crying 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 there wanted to great 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 though 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 is 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, 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 travel 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 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 back 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!
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.
“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? 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 love you, 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. An 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 the 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 is Mightier than the 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 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?”
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.
“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.
“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 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 all is gone to ruins. As new railway rail has been laid by Chinese and it started last year 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. 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.
“Poets prospectus folk.” Boet added. “Freeing our minds from the tyranny of the present.”
“What a about Poetry insurance, and Poet insurance?” Mathias asked.
Everyone laughed, and they all thought about that right there.
“We are Poetry and Railway History entertainment training minds to get better at cognitive time travel.” Mathias added.
You have a point. Redd replied.
To BE Continued-