Bread of the Future, #10

#10: Bread of the Future

And now_cast aside, I’m always hungry here.
For the bread of the future.
That is because my sugar was consumed.
Not my goodness or sweetness,
But like Haitian charcoal, an endless burning
Took me to pyre.
Meat is made cleaner now with salt.
A Hilal regime also comes with blessings.
I’m told.
Fortune cookies are more fun when dinner is pleasant.
Yours last said,
“I will take steps never to hurt you, by seeing you only when your dreams return.”
And mine said, “Run and hide boy.”
You cannot offer her the world and ten deliver just a handful of poems!
This is no feast for the night train to Moscow.
But, that’s not in me these days to deliver on command.
To run and hide is no option either.
I am a fighter even against hopeless odds.
Even when my face is newly broken.
“There is no hope,” she says.
“That heart I captured in oils was yours not mine.
You are saying things with words,
That are not backed up by work you put in me.
Your eyes and actions are mismatching all stated intention.”
Tak!
I always stay and fight when it’s something worth tears to fight for.
And I knew you would never hurt me of your own intention.
Selfish-intention non-withstanding.
Nothing, is more worth fighting for than to win a heart.
But not to capture it.
I seek to win your hard heart_
_Overcome resistance,
With longing and with promise of a future happy life.
A life without love is not a life_
And love is no parlor trick.
It is built on passion.
On contract and on persistent deeds.
I am not so broken that these tears are for you.
They are my water spilt for failings of the past.
I am a partisan.
We are allowed tears in front of our lovers.
So do not spit on my tears.
Say sometimes, “Adler I have missed you, and you must give me more Adler.”
Happy Adler can change the world for his woman’s smile
And her crazy eyes, azure eyes looing sky high.
And live a long life for a partisan.
All 88 years left.
Dasha, “When you say you can’t see me again soon,”
I say I will walk not run.
Patience in long lives must be able to overcome fate.
I am now wide open to arrows.
A plate is my armor.
Made only of tin, not steel.
So basically I’m bullet proof officially,
I must stop chasing you or you will quickly be able to have me done in.
You are the only thing that can hurt me.
And you are also the only person in a cold world who can set me on fire.
What do I do with my heart?
I do love you and you are in the arms of another.
So in the meantime know this:
Without knowing each other’s futures,
We do know something of our pasts.
We shall assume this is a Russian bed time story, not an American fairy tale.
I am now a serf.
And you the wife of a baron.
I am an ambulance aristocrat in exile and you can always call for me to come back as your friend or a lover or partner forever.
I think forever is like General Winter.
Not open to suggestion, only indomitable.
Baukunin and Kropotkin knew.
They knew love is like General Winter too.
It dominates a man,
Consumes him until he retreats or reaches safely to a lover’s heart.
I am less like Mayakovski and soon more like Walter Sebastian Adler.
Dasha have some hope.
Winter is not long here.
Please don’t forget me, and sometimes even call on me.
Have hope; it floats.
I swear to that.
I saw it once in an American cinema.
This is the country we now share.
Hopeless odds are just the way our cowboy minds take to a challenge.

Great Train Robberies, poem #9

#9: Our Job is the Great Train Robberies

On the surface I am a man who bleeds and has blue blood.
It gushes,
It stains,
It slit-throat dies my collar,
Whether blue (or) white:
Into a deep Red half past dead.
I suspect an inquisition will be launched.
After the blaze of glory that will cause these businessmen and bankers_
To attempt a separation of my body from my head.
Please hear me now, I vow.
I will not allow_ your misconceived appropriations of my conduct_
To pave a path of larger virtue_
Conscript a newer logic, and make up parables about my motives on the day they strike me dead.
For her flesh is worth every dollar that they spend,
It pales as well as blushes,
I aim to pull her from her squalor,

And get below the surface of defenses that form the basis of her cries.
My hands are rough, to match my constitution:
Only knocking faces with knuckles bring solution to generate a proper exit for this operation sketched out in its entirety,
In dark places in my head.
I been knocked upside my head before, but I can count my victories as in the end far less pyric than the scale of my defeats.
When you let me caress your face it is like a jack knife to a swan.
Zeus as a swan, and you as perfection and me as the knife.
I run through you.
Because you let me.
Begrudgingly.
Each night a promise of the last night.
I am addicted to you like a junkie.
Addicted to your eyes, to your moves_
The way that you steal.
All the attention in a room.
I’d like to rob a train with you.
We’d use loaded guns not the blanks with pistol whippings that we lob at late nights at each other.
I’d like to make our passions something of a grandiose spectacle.
Only bed room interactions need remain secret.
Our escapades will be the stuff of urban legend.
You’ll talk about me as a lover over until we are old and grey, I hope because we will make love and escapade and unrelenting fuckery until our hips give out to age.
But if that is not the way it goes down, cookie crumbling courtship,
I am certain we will never forget each other.
I’d prefer we do your robberies in your fatherland and retire in to the mother love o the Caribbean. I am certain you’ll grow accustomed to the Chornay eventually.
Somewhere in the Caucuses.
The setting occupied Ickeria!
If we get caught we will be tortured, and that as you know better than me wil be just the beginning.
If we get away with it, it will be a political act.
And you will probably be accused on face book of marrying a communist.
If they clip me I’ll heal myself.
If they catch me, I’ll just hold out for your rescue and hope they don’t cut my eyes out first. If they catch you.
Have mercy.
I’d take to the theatre, by storm.
A plane or four.
If they harmed even a hair inferno!
Dasha, I love you if the world lacks applause we must generate it.
To tears, to fears and via audacious candor.
If we robbed a train in Russia,
It would, or could be a victimless crime.
Because the oligarchs, the business men, they run those trains.
As long as no one died, we would be heroes,
So long as we dumped New Rubles in the ghettos of the Caucuses.
And performed the deed in style.
I know you love to watch me work a crowd.
Hands in the air for the people’s train robbery!
Like a Chechen Ned Kelly.
But obviously even a little more insane.
Remember when I got those hipsters to do nothing for years?
I bet with some irons they’d dance to tune_
Or storm back a ticket booth after a bar halled speech.
Or maybe just do nothing still because everyone is so well fed here.
Did I tell you lately how once I wished_
Well honestly hoped_
I just want to work under you and beside you.
On a Job.
All those boss qualities you’ve got.
I’d like to take more of your orders.
To compete with the material affections of other powerful men,
Well that is a game I will lose.
To run away with you to the forests of the Caribbean.
Live to see that old blue moon twice.
Now those are preferential odds.
Remember when you asked, asked me to drip_
Drip hot wax on the fingers that I shoot with?
And then on your back?
And it was like seduction with nowhere to go as the midnight clocks struck.
And you drip it now on my iron spine.
And I admit longing is a certain kind of torture too.
Irons like I used to run the run the Q Train job.
The Tel Aviv Plane job.
The last evening in Spain job.
My little girl loves to eat so I got to make sure my girl has enough to eat job!
Dasha!
‘Til my lights go out,
Those fires below my brow are turned silent,
In a blaze of more incoming fire;
This gun is for your hire!
It is to now be your gun only.
And whatever occurs;
I shoot just for you still.

In My NY Cell, Poem#7

#07: In My New York Cell

In my cell_ time doesn’t move the same.
You dwell mostly in the past.
Or some far off, seemingly hopeless future.
I try_
And dream of you.
But I cannot.
That is because torments weigh on me and keep me from visions of happier times.
Self-hate over whelms.
You learn to hate your best in a cell.
Too much time to spend of the past_
The future is just a glimmer through a key hole.
I whisper your name to the rats and roaches that are my witnesses. I extol your virtues to a homeless Lune who sought-solace-in-suicide_
Tried it twice and_ will try again upon his release.
Your name has more fulfillment than the rations or the recycled air.
Dasha Andreavna!
I say it aloud and it is like the hurricane outside is a product of our passions, a fitting cap stone to our separation
It bears down on the city and could render my captivity and chemical manacles, tear the whole goddamn place apart.
I fade in and out.
I try and count the kisses I’ve received from you in just the first five weeks of courtship.
They took me just three weeks from our first kiss.
If each kiss was a bullet or hand grenade used against our faceless oppressors
I’m sure I’d be here longer.
I am drunk still on those kisses.
Drunk on the past.
Intoxication is no good substitute for really feeling.
I desire you still.
All about you, every smile, every stolen moment we have left.
Free me from this place Dasha. I cannot be a
Man right now without you holding me upright.
I love you limitlessly.
I wish that I could open myself like a Siberian doll;
Open each part until understanding became possible or at least there might lie hidden a jewel to steal.
But I fear each layer comes with more questions and there is now jewel, only madness and a blood diamond.
Shines with a price.
Unbreakable but such toughness has heightened emotional cost.
Dasha Andreavna!
I am neither a phantasm or a ghoul
Not a demon or an angel either, nor some hybrid like you.
We are unique specimens. And the world has punished me for my loudness and perhaps rewarded you for our beauty only to punish you in other ways.
A lot of worth we are, with a lot of trouble.
I hope my poems survive me.
I hope you are wrong every night you say it is our last night. You’ve been wrong a very good number of times before.
Mostly only about that last.
My art is thriving under your casual supervision. I hope my life these days is a testament to your glory and not self-glory.
I cherish you;
I am a slave to what we might be.
Not what we are.
I would do many tragic things to prove myself a hero.
Again, and again.
I do not have to prove I am brave; only brave enough, well enough to fully love.
Love early, love often, and love with complexity building to completion.
And then you will forget your slavery and your grinding imprisonment.