Abstract
The easiest way to make a living as a poet is to write fiction. That is: When you visit the museum that is the African equivalent of Auschwitz, the hallways are not lined with piles of long hair of Jewish girls or luggage stamped Horowitz, Goldstein, etc. Instead, you find the macheted skulls of Tutsi boys and one of four survivors (out of 45,000 villagers) who, if you wish, can accompany you through the rooms. And if you ask, one of them can hold your hand or take your photo before the bones of his mother. "This," he says, "is my mother." And then after looking at her imploded chest, he says: "Oh no, that's not her. That's my cousin. There," and he gestures with a rock-throw, "That's my mother." You walk over. "No-no, there," and he gestures again. You spend the rest of the day looking for his mother. In the end you give him twenty dollars for his trouble, and he goes away. But now, you're going back over what you've written, and no matter how much you'd like his mother to become your own, she doesn't, not least for money, not more for love.
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