The hyenas in my brain march across
Frontiers of meaning finding nothing but echoes
Our land is lacerated by whip-marks of tongues
Of strokes of pen
Of foul mouths
And lavender fresh kisses
Of those who love to see love
Thrive and freedom reign
There are too many people
Too many mouths
Too many prayers
High jacked before they even strike the ears of God

The ricotcheting sounds of machine gun fire
Mshin’wam! Umshin’ wam!!
Proposes marriage to every willing
Maiden even as spurned lovers
Salivate at the door of spurious hope
Harder than granite to penetrate

My stomach rumbles
Undigested ideas of a better life for all
Rebel throwing razor words at my gut
My ideologue pharmacist prescribes
A purgative
My stomach visits the dinner tables of the 30’s and 40’s
Soviet and serviette style

The hyenas in my mouth grit
Bite
Chew bones
Of lengthening contentions in my land!
Now must I also drink to drown my sorrows
Mshin’ wine!!! Mshin’ wine!!!?