On my PC screen
an advertisement reads
"darfur is dying"
in a bored blasé voice
with two imaginary
eyes rolling, crying from

advertising whoredom
below it, orange afterglow words
shimmer with high quality
resolution, selling a sensation: darfur can die
on your computer screen
today, if you click here
and play fifteen minutes of
our pixilated PG rated topnotch banging
virtual sudan!"


I pick the girl in the blue dress,
she looks determined, or something,
I guess.

Arrow keys are for running.
Space bar to scream.
Enter key to sob.
Won't be needed.

I wish I could be
the janjaweed, or the sudanese
government. Yeah yeah then I could
throw bombs. And fly an airplane.
Then this game, this sweet, insane, great
would be better.

I click. Whatever, who cares.

The darfurians repeat the question:
Who cares?
Only to them it means,
Who will care?
Their voices are not bored blasé
they are shouts through a computer screen
they are help help me they are screams
and I am Whatever, kk, shut up.
I am playing a game.
alert alert this is not a game look
on your map we're here we're real
look on your maps look at the grave
they made, circled, in red, LOOK.

Away Status Plays: Go away.
Leave me alone. I'm a bored bored
"troubled teen" troubles like report cards
bleed bad grades my parents
yell teachers crush and and and

The darfurian presses her space bar,
interrupting me, how dare she, interrupt me,
with her cry for help, her "do you CARE?"
The space bar is stuck in her keyboard,
a voice trapped and space barred in her mouth.
I am bored key bored bored of the keys,
musical notes in genocide gunshots

An IM instant message says
Click, click, come on,
come on, click here,
help me.
I press

The Janjaweed enter
button themselves
they THROW
the Darfurian into a pit,
buried there, her
brother watches.

An OMGing Darfurian
and an LOLOLOLing Janjaweed
and a BRB G2Ging me,
a mascot for the whatever generation,
we all see it.

The brother who watches could hit
the ENTER button to cry, but he
does not care anymore: he is imitating us.

Shut up, shut up.
Whatever, who cares.
They're imitating us.

I turn on my ipod,
flip to mr. Brightside.
The killers sing, volume up,
hide the "help me" whisper,
louder, louder
destiny is calling me
open up your eager eyes

a bullet shoots through
my computer screen.

Where is mr. Brightside?

This game is stupid, it's lame,
I am bored.
Whatever, janjaweed,
kill my virtual sky blue dressed
dark skinned girl. I want to
see what it looks like when
a group of people blow
up all the hope in the world.

They rape her, right
in front of me, as I watch,
silently, I cannot fight,
but I cannot look away, I watch,
the screen,
I see the color empty from
her black angel eyes, as

Darfur dies.

Brief pause: Where will be bury it? Who will we put on trial for this one?

Whatever. Shut up. Remove
the pixilated corpse from
my computer's memory.
Delete, delete. Shut it up.
It never existed. Never was, will be.
Who cares. Who will care.