The Sometimes Children

find my way
following a slow trail of children
tripping water-carved ravines
in the darkness
their skin glowing like oil
despite the moon

path is dry
maze of empty ditches
would fill like rivers
if the needed rain
that friendly flooding
the pilgrims sleep through
or stand
lifting soaked newsprint umbrellas


two
hundred
children

arriving for bed
students gather and read
some just pretend
as the memories get later past
bedtime
the better the photo
to wrap the numbers
capture faces and army tents
solid even cement beds

i don't speak acholi or lango
or any other tongue
but they know
and i know
the bigger the eyes
the longer the scars
the deeper the pockets
(of those who read these interviews)
prying into people's lives
their saddest story best to sell

three girls select me with their smiles
ask the one who laughs
big and wide

to discover a name which defines-
grace hope
because somehow, she still smiles
takes her seat beside the stranger
tells me who's her crush
what subjects she likes
and what they call
her 'marks' in school
but what i'll not forget
(i thought about today
no reason to remember
driving in the rain)

the world-vision library
balanced on a wooden bench
carving her every word
into a notebook on my knee

three years ago
three years ago she was nine
slept in the bushes flat against the ground
waking in the grass to the sound of footsteps
and fear
before the shelters
when it was the bus park
filled with trucks and vans
and ruts
and rapists

once
she slept at home with her mother
the rebels: the children
that kill and steal
took her and her sister (who was hardly four)

but the words i can't forget
looking into the sweet
brown eyes
of a girl who could easily be my friend
who has my hobbies
and laughs like me
who, in her skin and school uniform
could be any normal girl
she calmly
a little more quietly said

"sometimes"

(my question
a question i hope
to never
ask again)
she told me her duty
as they tried to twist her mind
what she was forced
to do
to the ones who wouldn't work
or walk
(as i said.
its not my problem
not my war
other people; other children
if you want
i'll give

cant be so hard to stop an army
end a war
that never began)

amazed as
i heard my own voice
splintering the mumbled quiet
of fifty children studying
chatting before
they head for sleep
away from home family and
any resemblence of a bed

"did you ever beat anyone to death?"
and she quietly answered
“sometimes”

Rest in Peace

does he know?
the man who cleans off the graffiti
blue that slowly runs
down the side of someone's shed
screaming out the memory
of a boy-become-statistic

the sprayed epitaph
you walk past each day
to never let him go
to never let you heal

so we tell you to forget

wake up from loud nightmares
ringing in your ears
that mix with sirens
both remembered and real
leaves you screaming all alone
for years you've been standing in that alley
screaming in the night

so we tell you to forget

but you can still remember
the warm liquid on your hands
holding the last moments flowing from your friend

so we tell you to forget

the tears of bright blue blood
in the letters resprayed monthly
the landlord barks threats
behind the screen
too scared to step
because of all these gangsters

none of them are boys
the body of a member
slain between the streets
a lossless death, one problem gone

so we tell you to forget

sweat of your palms
hands shaking, as that one finger jerks
another shot, another scream.
forget.
forget the sound. forget the faces.

but we never showed you
and this is the only way you know
it's how the asphalt taught you to heal

sirens screeching to the pounding of your heart
and now, it's just you
for years you'll be standing in the cell,
screaming in the night

so we tell you to remember

remember the blood on your hands
so that you will change, be reformed
tatoo the crime onto your skin

the blue paint, slowly running down
forget
forget
remember
remember

The Red

"Running" doesnt always invovle rapid movement of the feet. Just after I wrote this, I met this boy's mother. I feel strange calling him a little boy- or even a boy.

those too-big shoes
falling off your feet
sucked into the the wet concrete
drowing seems so inevitable
by this tepid poision you are allowed to swallow

your angelic face with it's
perfect carvings, smoothened features
lies to say you are a boy
the shadows of wisdom you ought not to know
and lightless eyes that pretend to shine

who lets you swim through this grass and smoke?
who lets you dance in those red, red pants?
who diseases help and tutors you in marijuana?

little boy so grown up
never big enough to be head-over that stagnant lake

eleven
doesnt fail to make me breathe a little slower
eleven
keeps causing me to pause
try to swallow that slow growing stone
somewhere in my throat
where is the little boy in you?
oversized everything
doesnt even make you small

eleven
reversely echoes
growing louder and shaking in my ears
letters rewrite themselves
strangely golden, humming as they scream
eleven

eleven
just grows bigger and younger
eleven
eleven
little eleven year old boy

Paper Boys

The only name I can recall
Dehumans and destroys
Builds up an expectation
I hope he never fills

Where did he go?
the dirty shoes and smiles
just bones: elbows, knees
When 'rocks' were grey and solid
Before concrete, awful streets

Where is the boy?
He has hopes and dreams
Didn't run so easily
He thinks 'food' is to be eaten
What did you do with him?

I never knew this little boy,
but I know he must have been
i see it somewhere behind
the face- so feeling-less and masculine
now substituted with this pretend man

On a shelf of paper boys
who's names are almost gone
But there is him who knows the names
carved each into his hand

Looking for the stolen children
even as the world forgets the boys
and the men themselves
that someone calls them 'child'
and claims each as his own

I don't know each, or every
but those plams engraved
with whitened scars
won't forget the boys

The scribe is never silent
he pleads, not for the men
but for the boys,
the paper children
written into his hands

post its

the man beside me,
a little to the left
cripple in both legs
whispers softly, 'live'

the labels i write
titles i give myself
of what i am
or who i should be
refuse to stick,
keep falling at my feet

slowly growing piles
bigger words, stronger glue
and still they fill the floor

so now i'm writing on my flesh
carving into my arms
these names i want the world to see
the gospel which i share

look at the dried blood on my hands
from cutting words on myself
the battered man beside me
with blackened eyes
he's sworn ive caused

but the only thing i've done
is stood and screamed the words
the only one i've touched is me-
to make the lables stay

his swollen lips move, 'live'

my labels won't stay
these scars look awful;
diseased and spreading
my voice is cracked from shouting
tiny fingers brush my back
another label hits the ground

and still, the small, bent man
struggles to stand
pleading that i no longer beat him
only stain on my shoes is my blood
falling fresh from my cuts
my arms are sore, but my legs are strong
my voice is fading, but i have yet to walk

the last label almost stuck
but the little, beaten man plucked it off
blood spills through his teeth,
'live for me'