The Limits of Windows and Herons

Open bottles adorn the bar, green and brown birds that light flies through, green and brown glass meant for sacred windows. Cigar smoke makes a city of angels disappear, grayer clouds swallow clouds less gray. This atmosphere hides anything but thicker atmosphere; the best friendship to be had is with Jack Daniels and other presences from the best countries in the world in this one small place near where people first started and where killing therefore first started also. Thick diplomatic presence makes an embassy for every one here; voices twitter saying only what it won't hurt to repeat, but some of what tries to get said won't translate politely. The shine of waiter's teeth makes military medals look like coal. How can such a paradise become a place of despair? How can the bottles fly? Can Heineken mean heron? Can light that shines through the stained glass window putting patches as green as grass on bare floors where nothing grows in dirt from shoeprints be the same light that keeps freshly killed corpses warm? There is forest of corpses on the hill all around a church; the clothes of corpses are so colorful it seems a forest of cut-down Christmas trees. Every color ever wished for is there. The hotel soon has no white light; only darkness is left to do what darkness can do. Flickers, candles in the age of power; the hotel doesn't even belong to Rwanda. It is as Belgium as the popular beer. Where does hospitality end? How far can it go when it travels in bottles that don't know their limits as church windows and herons? And genies come out of bottles And nothing goes back in. The world spills. The comfort of the five star beds Five star meals, room service and five star pillows become the five star caskets of children men women As gunshots are fired, each has a certain name on it, a customized bullet as if no Tutsi mistake has been made Shattered glass forms a mosaic tribute to those whose blood crystallizes on the glass The chants of those who plan to kill become the chants of funerals Each explosive is like a personal ballad giving each person personal recognition There are only low-pitched anthems deep kettle drum rumbles like the earth itself talking: each grave that is dug opens up another mouth.