Sarajevo Bonjour, memoirs of a Yugoslavian GM

Coffins are a luxury, as is soil instead of snow
White, and clear, white and clear.
The muslims have it cheaper though, the burials that is.

Oh, the bakery is opening today,
We'll make a trip to town, dressed up for God.

Hot are the cinders as the wheat is baked,
a beautiful brown fresh bread.
The church's broken door handle looks fixed,
I saw the pastor smile yesterday, across the bomb crater
Which now looks like it's part of the life here .
A second scud missile blew up the soccer pitch,
It should have been done ages ago.

Do you like the new green shade on the trigger
Of my gun? I painted it myself- it's my horticultural
Experience, Vera loves my green fingers which explains the
Long creeper that is up her wall, she insists on watering it
Twice a day-she says it is good for the stem.

Green trust becomes a golden plaque to be melted on gravel
Like one masterly stroke of stolen innocence
Slicing the scabs of subdued conscience
Like Serbian metal, whose cold kiss invites the screams.

Tauriq Jenkins

Somalia

Through the desert sands of a continent,
my eyes narrow in, more minutely, more intimately
I see the glinting metal
that ripples through the sand during the storm
I see a footprint of a scud missile,
an array of bullet-shells in the dune.
Sing Hamada, sing in the hail of your future.

Tauriq Jenkins

When falcons call

A leathered glove
not clenched, not open,
you fly about the hue.

Sharp and accurate
you serrate the air
with finesse and grace.

Today, on my arm
you stay for a while,
a little longer than usual.

Our friendship through
unspoken words
spills in a mutual trade
of looks.

I admire the stealth of your
flight,
but am happy on your landing,
as you stay a while.

Funny that we fear each other.
I tremor at your claws,
and you know who holds
the gyre.

It's been a while since
last we sat together.

I have always listened
in the distance that binds us,
the only time when you speak,
from way up there.

Only from up there,
do I hear your call.

Exponential Guru: In a boot , below darkness.

Exponential Guru: In a boot , below darkness.

In a boot , below darkness.

In a boot, below darkness, a temple of anger.
with my friend, exchange a glance.
Hijacked, and locked in a boot,
A Promethean oven of Hate,
air becomes franchised,
we gulp like hungry birds,
albatrosses eating their young in dry season.
Craven, alone, two moths trapped in disgust.

Limbs ache, bruises seek no forgiveness.
For Tik, the God of Vengeance
we lie in a boot of without prayer,
choked on our own incurable sense
destiny's sickness.

I struggle to pull out my arm,
from under my back to shake hands
with my comrade.
He is a chess player, a good one,
we agree on a draw.

Clutched in each other's fear,
whose contagious bite devours
hope.
We keep silent and breathe,
vision shut we play the moves
over and over in our heads,
a final variation.
We look back and fro
past to present, and in the middle game
we burn thoughts into Hades,
burn hope into a chamber,
where from the anvil
must find a solution.

We think,
and enter the realm of sovereignty.
welcomed by kings and queens,
saluted by kinsmen,
in a boot below darkness.

I ask who are they, these men?
They are born like me, look like me, talk like me,
today they kill me.
Kill me because they do not
think like me.

In a boot below darkness, in a temple of hate,
like animals reaching towards humanity,
we urinate in containers,
grateful for their presence,
as maternal proverbs beat against our bosoms,
we find respect in a cola bottle.
Decency before dawn holds still.
Thankful, that we will not like pigs
share their stench when they find our bodies.

Tears flow, words are not rebuked,
they run raw, sharp and true,
vowels express the winds of the sea,
consonants break like earthquakes.

In a boot below darkness,
we re-invent the perspiration of hate,
find ghosts and poise arrows,
ready to pounce like rabid wolves
ruby-eyed scavenging for prey.

In a boot below darkness,
Nightmares become us.
Every living pulse is tuned
to blood, to hurt, to hunt.

We are ready.

We probe mercilessly,
"When will I see her again, have children,
"get married?"
"When will I see, feel, love
from the state I am in?"
A self inflicted gestapo interrogation.

In the boot below darkness,
Sparrows wait to to poke
our dead eyes. We hear the birds
grinding their teeth,
jittering their thorny wings.

WE stay them off
in the haven of 64 squares.
Sanctuary of King and Queen.
Welcome us,
Order us,
Save us.

We bargain pride with the grey zone,
and sell trinkets of fear in return
for dollops of hope.

We drag on hope
like the addicts that
have enslaved us.

We inject goodness into our veins
through murmured songs
of loved ones.

In a boot below darkness,
We think, and with the strength
of Bishops and Knights we find steed.
We find steel, we find weapons of war.

We become fit to fight the demons.

In a boot below darkness,
we are chessmen,
soldiers, warriors of a thousand years,
with a thousand hands.
We re-learn the trade of "Kumite",
listen to the "Tao" of every game played,
and learn its lessons.
We remember the fallen,
announce the will to fight,
till they shoot us, rape us, kill us,
tear us to bits and pieces."

"We will hold honour til its finds day."

Life flashes like Blitz.

Required is a bullet response
before lead sinks into our skulls.

We will hold honour
til it finds day.

We survived.

Caught our captors.
From a boot in a car, a temple of hate
we escaped through seats, while they fed themselves,
and won.

Day has arrived.
I still have my king
on the board,
for all the world to see.

And Comrade, so do you.

Tribute to Randall Petersen

May the spirit of 64 squares
and the soldiers of the board that
fought with you all your life
lead your way to heaven.

Never hurt our chessmen

You who played with the lives of our chessmen.
Hijacked them,
hurt them,
and almost killed them,

know this,

Never will you make this mistake again,

the trial awaits, and justice will be served.

May you rot in hell.