The Survivals Dance 1,2,3

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The Survivals Dance

Written by

Adler S. Walt

Playfully dedicated

To my co-conspirator

Polina Mazaeva

CAST

  1. ‘Blacksmith Winter’ ‘Kawa Zivistan’, ‘Zacharias Abu Yazan’, Sebastian Adonaev, a CHECHEN New Yorker; our antagonistic protagonist, a guerrilla on the move. ALSO KNOW AS THE FATHER OF NIGHT.
  2. Maria Silverrtova of Moscow, a MOSCOVITE; a tavern shot girl, an inquisitive journalist.
  3. Polina Casperova Mazaeva, a war Forrest wife and a CHUVASH, crimson hair.
  4. Anya Rumi Baghdadi, a Lebanese CHECHEN prophetess, diplobrat of the Green Zone.
  5. Carla Santiestiban, A Cuban working girl, jet black hair.
  6. Ana Campbell, a British YPJ Martyr, blonde and bright eyed.
  7. Adelina Blazhennaya, sorcerous Slavic linguist of Chelyabinsk.
  8. Yelizaveta Alexandrovna Kotlyarova, a Russian American doctor of hands and feet.
  9. Justine of Erbil, a Dutch humanitarian fixer/ freelancer.

 

  1. Ayar of Kirkuk, a Kurdish CHECHEN fixer mafiaioso, mustached and hungry.
  2. Dan Oldtown, a comedic British Jew, an internationalist guerilla. ALSO KNOWN AS THE FATHER OF FLAME.
  3. Jansher the Spirit of War, a Georgian a PKK guerilla entrusted to teach the internationalists basic warfare.
  4. Abdul Rahman, Piling, a French African an internationalist guerilla.
  5. The Gangster Medvinsky, a Ukrainian intellectual tough guy, who sometimes weighs in on the Russian mentality and American cowboyism.

 

Whatever actor isn’t reading from the black or red books, is silently or at a whisper trying to sell the audience fake vodka shots. Which sometimes is just water, cranberry juice, or Pedialite. Or drawing pictures of people poorly using techniques of exaggerated color and bust size. These 12 characters can we played by 2 to 4 actors, the men change colorful guerrilla uniforms and the women change wigs.

 

All actors read from the pages in their own means and fashion.

Prologue

Setting-“The Iron Curtains Rise with Post-Soviet Futurist Prose.”

 

Reads Sebastian Adonaev:

I once tasked myself with building a small, disciplined revolutionary organization in Israel that could strike at human traffickers as readily as it could train medical workers in zones of atrocity and deprivation or war. First, I went to Palestine and saw the wall. Second, I went to Haiti and wet my hands with the blood of 300,000 who died in the great quake. Then, I sucked in my chest and got ready for the death I thought immanent Syrian Civil War.

I used the field hospital Wi-Fi and a Syrian sim card to let everyone who was listening know I’m alive. It’s not that many people anymore. It’s a blonde debutante in Midtown, following me out the corner or her eye from a high tower of captive luxury. There’s a sexy Harvard lawyer who gave me Mindfulness on the Go, and her cute little sentimental blessings. My parents say almost nothing, my brother especially. Polina Mazaeva, my lover, she has shut be off right during the final battle for Mosul. But I write to her anyway; “I’m alive, motivation is high!” “I’m alive, tell me the weather in Boston, New York and Nizhny Novgorod. Besides Ms. Chanie Rossi, Ms. Daria Skorobogatova and before Polina; no one seems to be keeping any track of my exploits. That mighty revolutionary organization we’d tried to build, well it crumbled in my absence amounting to zero less than nothing.

I began in Cuba, then Russian Federation, then popularly mobilized Shi’a Iraq, also Kurdish referendum North Iraq and then into the hell of Syria. It all took about 9 months to ruin my resolve and lose my mind. Then in Cairo I waited two days in February and then into indefinite detention in the New York Hospital Camps; which swore I was a mad man. I recite in my cell a poem that was my 88th; made for one Elena Komarova, a confidant who can’t deal with my lifestyle anymore. It was about red and white Russians, about Moscow and exile and death and love and what I will refer to as my Special Period; my special period of love and war.

First I must warn you, I’m very powerful as a man, half the year or more, in that I do not fear death and consider my well plotted deeds heroic. But, I’m jointly powerless before a woman who believes in me and so it was fate, misplaced silly fate, that when the war ended for me and none of my confidants were attentive, obsessively, yes obessivively I made a new muse out of a tavern shot girl. Not amorous, not frivolous. I just wanted that pretty stranger with the Vodka bullets to care if I was alive. I wanted her to believe in my seriousness as a hero and an artist, I wanted her to trust in my, ineffable might.

 

Back in a holding Cell,

So-called “safe and getting help” in the Big Apple,

Sebastian recites:

 

 

 

[Ineffable Might] {88}

1!

I have to get through tonight.

Through mid-precarious forward assaults on the best of my iron vest incites.

My failure of amorous insight I like best,

The hole in the hollow, the pump that replaced the very black heart you stole from my mostly tumultuous chest. Mm-hmhm.

The pretend of a sigh, I know not the reason the rest of us feast while beyond citadel gates the rest of them die.

You have no idea how I try, when each time, each slight, each break of a promise of long life to come presides over the wisp of a hum!

After a long kiss good night and each missing delight.

Is the price I pay, I repeat what I say’ I slip not a single bit eager away, since your departure, wrong or for right

Grim departure into Moscow’s deepest ring roaded abyss, the spire of citadels cracking the rims of the night.

Did I get the last part of this parable right, the cold comes so quick and pulls blankets across over and under, unearthly so deathly, so white?

Was the price that I paid for surviving the run and gun into 30 decay; the brak and bray of the fire fisted fight?

All just a lie, a lie upon lie; a fuck upon a fuck of hardly giving anything since your flight back to Moscow my mind run amuck!

Know the palm of my hand, from the width of my spite. And the nose to the palm and the fist to the fall and dashing and lashing the fuck of if it all,

Ineffable might!

The spittle the bleeding the taking the needing of need, the needing the worst kind of slashing and misreading, the cut of my guts and drop of the floor.

I can’t take one more bit of this shit; the wanting and needing and lusting and ego size feeding the lies that I tell in the dark in the blood in the spit.

I have written nothing of note in a fortnight, the sublime in a rhyme the taking and selling and trading of time. The wasting of me, taking all I had left of shadow of man with an blackness of soul, that hole in my chest and the tack of the toll.

The words that in hatch marks we chiseled on the tree of life, cut into the fabric of magic unknown. We cut with a knife a most frivolous thing; a tantric phallus with fairies, with cantankerous birds and bare breasted women based on the porno graphs as a young man I was shown!

Warbler please, I balter blather bother as I beg you on my knees, as my own skin is a second hand cloth that I have no mastery of, Daphne grazing swans as stabbing eyes.

The tower lies. The science of lord of the flies. And the words they use the fish gut stench of reasons for the uncouth means their ways implies.

Dear one, citizen scientists playing along using flashier cars well-oiled sport teams ongoing efforts to pretend that they’re strong;

Hyper Development just setting in the death of man in the forest somewhere is a trumpet cacophony playing along.

 

2!!

I have to get through tonight.

A black breaded bite.

A bit from a stripper pop cake, or the glare of cattle do ambulance lights!

Exploding the quiet of poorly spent plight. I am sure that even my audience will agree I pick a most precarious fight?

How did I find a woman like you? A painted face pixie/ glowing indomitable spirit. A triumph of happy delight.

For my pain is leviathan. Swallows me Jonas like whole, the whole of the real the epic created the lies and masks and the anted up toll.

The world to me is mountain.

A treacherous fort on a series of hills.

At time my heart stops for a minute or two and escape I go from the physical plane; a gust of grey smoke; above the knives of the killers

The laugh of the joke;

The spies and their lies; the whores and the pills; the dagger men banking on newly spent kills!

I escape.

With an ephemeral form; ineffable might.

I arrive in the future, a futuristical place; optimistically new: a futurist man remade in my vast powers of so endlessly loving the very most essence of you.

The sheer will of my love, you say what know me of love?

It’s in my vertebral wires, the pumps and valves below and above; a flame driven of ebbing and tidying; expending reason, self-abasing, or pleasing, it keeps sails on the good ship Adler aright;

The good ship takes flight:

With red balloon ballast; for the love of the goddess they’re calling a piece, I fly like a battalion of eagles, no goslings or geese! Get me out Shrakasa Waltham; take me back to your arms; take the thick of me deeply and thrust away all this pain give me back my beloved, give me back my release!

Release to your arms, then everything’s right; and out of the sickly black whiteness of my last winter’s long running night.

 

3!!!

How did I come to be in this place! In this night. Despite all my lastingly brazenly brokenous promises made; most find my goodness of motive in fuck or in fight.

I chose this. You’re right.

No ugly Waltham, no you. That’s what I know. That steel hand on your chest is a pledge that I’d love and support you through it all.

No matter how far. Or the places apart that we go.

No matter the heights.

Unlimited loving, but lately my powers are limited few; alone in this grim Shrakasa camp; staring at screens, talking in circles. Dreaming of you. When i look in a mirror I see a masked man; hiding his weakness, his murderous features a terrible blight.

What know me now of love. Perhaps you were always right.

What questions are these?

My face has been dashed. I’ve had current, a beating or two, my face has been water board splashed. Bleedings and squeeze.

You hate when I beg and you hate worse when I bellow; but if I can pray prostrate to the thing I call god;

I can beg the swifter return of the woman I love on my knees.

 

4!!!!

 

Black Gates of Ringed Roads!!

Halve the Bad Lands in between! Moscow where is Moscow! I am blind and bleeding from the ghastly things I’ve read but also seen!

I’m going to cut my very timber eyes-hatchets out for falling fancy i have invalidated the thrusts of bulldog black intent.

Replicate in my countenance a bleaker predilection, vast pre tension boils over; guest workers four leaf clovers; borrowed money poorly spent.

Click boots on black tarmac prospects covered in haggardly snows, my own sound and both unquiet mind plays ballads to your kind;

To flaunt all trepid interpretations of my base medical vocations, back hand to brackish bankers, my boots will crunch his jaw and leave all these business men cocksure now cock less grind.

I will beat him palpy pale, I’ll kill your Thomas cop I’ll brutalize your vile builder Andre and stab his heart with dagger bursts rip apart his vicious tale. Thought you my poems pretty song?  I’m a most violent nemesis to any motherfucker who has done my woman epic wrong!

Moscow where is Moscow it’s a place inside my mind; it’s a fortress it’s a mountain citadel, it’s a place I am kept from my only love and therefore it becomes a hell.

The deadness spreads inside me.

And the poems end but not my own is rightly neigh. I hate the thought of poetry, I like the thought of killing; killing myself to slaughter out the oligarchs and all your laundry list of vile, brutish guys.

I hate now the face of me!

I could kill ten thousand Europeans

Burn out every sand of Europe’s soil

It’s just a place to rape and shit and pee.

What people want they go to see! I try and tell them what to think more of perfect you and less of violent raging me. And you underestimate the violence that was done to those by Europe done to you and done to me. Done to mine and done to yours, I have fallen and am in drowning in my tears of madness dash my face upon the floors;

You left me here for Moscow, I am thus a dog a broken wolf and breathing smoke.

Hanged men hang for forty days before thieves decimate the corpses for the secrets in their cloak.

What near a life by proxy we.

Three continents apart is our manufactured destiny.

And you so fearless, you so noble, you so perfect and so true. Were the only thing that held be from these bastards back, of fear for me and more for you!

The Moscow spires and the snow fall, the oldness and the thrill. The vastness of separation is a poem not a kill.

The winds howl out and call for layers, my words mean nothing but effigies of deed and love between our warring peoples might seem ineffable, indeed.

I see you in my all my happy dreams, your thrilling beauty juxtaposed with my potential coming might. But for now like tragic Mayakovsky and his Tatiyana;

I am red.

And you are white.

 

 

Maria: A white Russian rejects the patriotic turmoil and material insufficiencies of the mother land for the French European Parisian comforts of the bourgeoisie, or in our epoch, flees non-Moscow for Manhattan.

 

 

 

Scene One

Opening credits, the Iron Curtain Rises

Setting-“My heart is on my bloody soaked, evil caked sleeve.”

 

Reads Maria Silverrtova:

Let me roll up my sleeves and also my skirt, a little! Look at me in the eyes! I have all my teeth to bite. So sexy and educated and multi-lingual. What, a, catch to catch. I am a wild debutante, elusive and amazing. I am a journalist of course, forced to pour men off shots in a tavern downtown.

Zdrastvistia! The purpose of this play is to buy and sell luxury carrots. Also a flying carpet to get you home after all the bullshit we will make you sit through telling Russian American tales. Also to warn you about Chechnyans, and also to distribute out a phone number where slaves with abused lives can get J 1, S 1 or go to college. There is singing and poems. We will try and pour you things called Vodka, but it’s not vodka; to us it’s like water for wound care.

Good and bad men went to war and women also went to war, and Americans and Russians watched out the corner of the Newspaper or telescreen. And of course supplied the arsenal and the airstrikes.

The papers called them “the Chechnyans” because when the war kept going, people came back trained in god-only-knows how much carnage capability. The war I’m referring to is the Syrian Civil War/ the Revolution in Rojava which was a phantom menace to all. But it was more a dark dream based on improbable odds. Chechens, are in fact a very real jihadist menace that fought us to the last bullet in Mosul, Raqqa and Deir-A-Zor. They brought their whole families into the Jihad. These re-moniquored “Chechnyans” weren’t like them. They were secular and young, and mostly on the Kurdish or Shi’a side, or the Pesh Merga. They all left our families at home. There were plenty of war path teams and factions, mine/ ours was the most moral, but lived in a state of total delusion. They were following a pudgy faced aging man in Turkish solitary confinement. We thought breaking rocks was a useful form of soliloquy.

 

Reads Sebastian Adonaev:

I kissed her very hard against both our better judgment. Last time I kissed her like air. I saw her un-maked unpacked, un-made-up Slavic beauty face on her birthday, before we did one last job on St. Pat’s day. We weren’t supposed to do jobs like that in Midtown, people get upset.

I pulled her through to my reality, for the last time and she was completely pissed. The reality wasn’t very nice because it wasn’t the American dream she had set out to conquer on someone else’s name. That name and those papers had failed her mightily.  I yanked her through to the other side. The serf side, the Warsaw ghetto side. I was still just a petty gun slinger, Syrian Civil War vet on the run from the war in Syria and my own mind. I did 80 days in Bellevue City hospital and filth was still on my fingers, elbows and toes. I hadn’t slept well even one night.

She was still just a high end whore a year later? Not fair but probably true. But she wasn’t like Maria from Moscow anymore, doing what she did and still does with her tits and high ball shots and take home party favors. She was way over long walks with artists. She was regressing into Capitalist Modernity, the place she’d always wanted to end up, was now boring. Her suitors never waned. Especially the pesky Brahman roommate.

It has been a long road from Havana to Brooklyn to Russia, into the Middle East and back. With stopovers in where civilization has come to a resolute end in the Fertile Crescent. Burning down river by river shore to deep sands of desolation.

My name was once Sebastian Adonaev, but the Kurds named me Blacksmith Winter, or Kawa Zivistan. The Arabs, they needed to name me too so they called me Zacharias Abu Yazan. Because my then girlfriend correspondent Polina has a son named Yazan. I was 33 when I deployed but looked and felt younger. Her name, my timeless old Muse was Dasha, but this isn’t about her. The other books were all about her. This is about the time a Syrian war vet caught feelings about Maria Silverrtova, a buxom little Chechnyan, like him. No, it was about picking up the shattered pieces of this nightmare, resiliently.

This is a cry for some extra hands, some Hamsas, that survived to talk about the Syrian Civil War. This is a love song after a series of hard fucks in Spanish and love making in Russian. This is a Post-Soviet Lullaby, written in Imperial English. I have heard on the wire that Anya is losing her mind in Baghdad and Ana Campbell, that optimistic young woman I have hand grenades to; well she dead and here I am in Capitalist Modernity’s heart, doing nothing but stupid love songs.

 

Reads a deceased Ana Campbell:

Yes, forgive me loved ones, I died immediately in an airstrike in Afrin. My body was in, smithereens. Afrin was until it was overrun by Jihadists and the Turkish state, the Western most canton of Rojava; the besieged revolutionary movement called Democratic Confederalism that defeated ISIS and took over 45% of Syria, until the Turks began to genocide us in April 2017. I died pretty. I was a true believer. Sebastian blames himself for my death, but really I was a true believer in the cause. I could have died much worse if the Turkish Army or its proxies took my alive. I would have been gang raped. And had my head cut off eventually.

Sebastian lives with his guilt but Dan Newey another guerrilla I almost kissed, he does not. Dan Newey is in in British prison accused of terrorism. He mourns me loudly. Honestly, we all lost a lot defending the Rojava Revolution, but we internationalists that the papers call  the new Chechnyans, we were actors on a stage of world events, but we didn’t do that much. Now I’m dead, which I’ll tell you seems like being on the mountain without being shot at. It’s peaceful, I’ll have him tell you that. I died with my AK in hand. I believed in this, I wasn’t mentally ill. I wasn’t a bandit girlfriend. This was, this is, big and important, but sadly as far as self-defense; a mirage. Without American airstrikes to back us up we melted under Turkish airpower.

At the time of writing this my corpse is still behind Turkish lines and it looks like Mambij and then all of Rojava will fall to the Turkish Army, a U.S. ally and second biggest in NATO. I am happy and dead. But vicariously I grieve for my Arab and Kurdish comrades who prepare to make Shahid Namorey (immortal martyrdom).

 

Reads Cancer the Guerrilla:

 

Actually, I tried to prepare them for a lifestyle of revolutionary militancy. Kill the enemy. Kill the enemy before the enemy can airstrike, execute, torture or disappear you and your friends. I don’t think they all got it. The training was just too short. They retained much of their Western bourgeoisie privileges. They thought it would maybe be like a movie. It’s a shame the woman died, she was the one with possibly the very most potential, excluding the Germans. That’s all I can say about that, Heval.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scene Two

 

Russian American Love Ballad #01

Brooklyn Soviet

 

“An artist, is just a colorful, self-destructive fool making muses left and right of women who he is too poor to build a life around, but so much of a distraction he can keep them for a bit amused. An artist is a social parasite, with no aim, especially a poet for god’s sakes. Death to the artists and cheers to the investment bankers, the engines of productive society, I’d like to be fucking one,” so Maria of Moscow voting with her lips not her feet against American artists.

“He appears more infatuated with the idea of a real relationship, than the mechanics needed to keep on going,” said Daria to the secret police when the arrested her in January.

“Who is Polina Mazaeva? A coy Russia agit-prop? No, No, she actually has fallen in love with this radical. And they are preparing to meet, but have composed a number of Russian American, or Americano Soviet love songs and scribbles. Truly, I just wish he would die in Syria and we can close his file,” wrote Case Officer David Smith of Homeland Security, Station 4443.

 

Dear Polina Mazaeva,

 

[American Russia Love Song 116]

Sebastian:

We now sit down in different cities,

We are all dying, on our own, in a terrible way.

We went hunting, for the words in Russian or in English for, the clever, slash redeeming things, we might, even begin to try and say.

Maria:

Raise your head and hands up rude boy!

That’s not how the Story Ends, this time!

“You found your son, you saved your wife you helped your people win the war.”

Ana Campbell isn’t dead this time, regular people, comprehend the revolutionary side of this long epic thing that sounds like lullabies and gory folk lore!

That’s not how the story ends this time;

Tragically as it might be, you get to start again. Tell us what you fought for!

 

Sebastian:

No, no, no, this isn’t right, I turned my gun on Newey before the fire fight that night.

Polina’s alone and in poverty, she’s trapped in Novgorod. What have I done!

Sebastian is sealed in a psychiatric ward! Making these fucking phrases rhythm rhyme for fun!

Anya’s losing her little mind in Baghdad.

Piling and Dan Newey are in French and British prison, so this happy tale is really quite black and rather fucking sad.

 

Maria:

That’s not how the story ends this time!

I’m a woman not a shot girl, I’m a journalist not someone’s whore!

What were these hands grasping for!?

Tell it better, give us something, give us hope give us something to believe in!

Don’t let your martyrs’ dies for nothing, hold out longer dear dead Afrin!

Sebastian:

That’s not how the story ends this time!

Sebastian finds his mind in chapter three.

And long live the Kurdish resistance, I wonder what Anya can see, when the lights go out and the rubbing oil turns her to Cleopatra.

But, this is sad long terrible black soliloquy. Resistance was our mantra.

About the things we did, to we. It was murder carried out like tantrum.

Maria:

That’s not how the story ends this time!

Afrin is defensible, Anya is a happy kid again. Yazan conquers his disease. Sebastian has the strength of lions, of over 45 men! But that’s all in your sad Americano mind game!

But now we begin, everyone lost something and it seems hard to think we could ever win. It’s over you all lost, things are still the same.

Give them something to believe in!

 

Sebastian:

“Give, me, back, my shattered life!”

Let my people find a way to win!

And she’s looking at me now like she’s ready to go!

Turn back the clock give us our lives!

And she’s looking at me now like she’s ready to go!

Turn back the clock give us our land!

And she’s looking at me now like she’s ready to go! (Ready to blow).

Turn back the clock give us our lives!

Maria:

That’s not how the Story Ends, this time!

This is not a ballad for people who build bombs!

This is not a ballad for, people who turn cars into battering rams! Man, your life is nearly gone!

That’s not how the Story Ends, this time!

This is not a ballad for two people who move on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scene Three

A Prologue

In Brooklyn Soviet

 

 

Sebastian Adonaev reads:

 

 

Sometimes, old friend, I cry from own weakness. I bash my Jew face against various mirrors around town angered by my own lack of force, lack of seed, and lack of ability to carry my band more truly into glorious and successful battle. I beat my frail fists on concrete walls which always win! I ask my God why it untrusted me with anything at all. For I am so small and so unable it seems to be a good fighter, an adequate lover, or a good leader, or a good son, or a good husband to Adelina, a good much of anything. I started the game with such a strong position but have not leveraged that to advance my people and cause, even protect those I loved the most!

 

And then I remember my actual role, not the role my mad ego ascribes. I am but one single partial partisan. One isolated man with such true friends.

 

I am commanding, a funny word “commanding”, more appropriate term coordinating for can one even give orders to a volunteer? A force that numbers at any given time no more than ten to maybe twenty women and men. And no God nor man nor foreign government gave us marching orders; well at times a Russian woman gave me some directions, but only when at most desperate and bleak junctures, I had to no council to turn to. But, I brought almost all this chaos upon my house unaided! But this is hardly a wide conspiracy. But looking into my own soul I am not doing this for God or man, I am not simply avenging my losses, nor am I simply working off a duty to act. No, no; I am self-propelled and highly lucky. I am doing this because my eyes see fire. I am doing this because I have seen the view from the top of the Mountain, I have seen the killing fields too. I have a great empathy with my kind. I wish good to triumph over callous and well planned evil.

 

And the responsibilities that were impressed on me by the old leadership, they were small bits. And I say to myself that if our little band with no weapons and no training and no funding and the protection provided us only by our passports and various skin tones could do so much! Still we did accomplish a range of small things in the Americas and beyond. We took over buildings, and organized demonstrations, built unions, operated a substantial underground press. If we could build youth brigades and lay cells across four continents; if we could operate clandestine supply chains, raise tens of thousands in equipment and supplies, conduct hundreds of underground political trainings, infiltrate major city civil service organizations, if we could smuggle activists and trainers into distant countries uninvited and opposed by government. If we could do all of this with no outside support and do it with keeping all our partisans out of long term prison, and have only buried three men in seventeen years of war under questionable circumstances. Well perhaps we are all still young and the war shows no sign of being over. Perhaps we have a small latent talent for freedom fighting and if not killed or imprisoned could with a little guidance grow more professional.

 

And we have not killed one single person in seventeen years, in fact we have with our own hands saved the lives of thousands and counting.

 

“I’ve always said he has a fucking ton of potential! For good, for self or for evil, wherever his own heart ultimately sends him,” Daria once declared.

 

So, really as was explained to me then in 2012 before the uprising in Brooklyn by my confidant Dasha Andreavna; I could either surrender, collaborate or be utterly destroyed. But as she gauged my nature was highly American, she guessed correctly I would never tolerate a life of collaboration, so thus death or some impossible victory were the only moves coming.

 

I have been imprisoned twenty times. My brothers and sisters have never allowed them to take me for long. Each time they have chained me to beds, administered electricity, loaded me with drugs, asked millions of stupid questions to attempt to make me alter my perspective, denounce my own logic.  I have observed members of the band lose their very homes and their livelihoods and their freedom and their health. I have seen men thrown through Plexiglas glass windows. We have been held in cages and also tortured. The deaths of McGaffey, Becker and Black were all sudden and violent and unexplained. I remember little Paul behind bars, I remember harassment and humiliation of Comrade Vik, I remember how much was sacrificed vainly in the name of this struggle. This struggle which absorbs my beingness as though it were the love of a woman, but I am a zealot. I am not good for anything but this. I am in love with my entire people and I have resolved that it would be better to be killed, to lose my privileges of skin and class, than to live in a world where a tiny vile few make the lives of the many, the lives of all I know and love a wretched grinding torture. Truly a half-life.

 

I cry sometimes, no longer in the presence of any others. Dasha mocked me so each time I failed to be a man. I cry because the horror is so vast and the injustice so great. And I have but ten to twenty partisans, several with wives and children. I worry that I am not going to be able to shoulder this struggle, that I lead my closest to sedition and doom. I worry I have not the moral fortitude, the calm patience of humble leadership, the organizational skills the funds we will need, the weapons, the uniforms, the petrol, the Planes, the will. For I am a man and I am seduced sometimes by wanting more good life, wanting to walk away. This is not your fight, she said, no one asked you to struggle!!

 

Friends, they torture me once a year. They tell me I have an unstable mind. They drag me away over and over and over again. I am grateful for such friends as you, who refuse to accept surrender. Who know that we can win the war! I wanted to tell you all, see what we do with just ten women and men. You have that many fighters too. Here we all are at the top of the mountain, assembled in the ghettos encircling the Isle of Man.

 

I loved her so much. Maybe only one or two of you know what I’m talking about. They took from me the only thing a man should care about.

 

I’m thankful for the resistance. I’m thankful for our little Otriad in Brooklyn. For the cells in Chicago, Philly, Baltimore and DC. The underground in Moldova, Cambodia, Haiti and occupied Israel. Thankful for Commander Reed in Mosul, Commander Bonhomie in Port Au Prince. Inspired deeply by the teachings of Solomon and DeBuitléirs. I love my family and my wife, I hope this is the year we go pro.

 

She is a million miles away, but she can hear me. She can see me. She liked me better before I found communism, liked me better before I rediscovered my religion. She even liked my used suits better than the grey uniform I wear now.

 

I raise glass to the East, for there somewhere out there I hope she is waiting for me, waiting for us to win. I raise my glass, I look my men and women in the eyes when I toast, “Long live the resistance, God protect the blood line of the prophets and the Meshiach and the Mahdi. God keep us moving along the straight path, not the path of those who are cowards, or those who have been lost and lead astray.”

 

For those of you who are joining us from home, for those listening from the trenches, from the fields or from the big house, or as servants in the towers. This is just a love song.

Yes, an epic Russian American love ballad set in the Middle East.

 

This is not a song for people that don’t know how to fire guns.

That Night, Prelude

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Prelude

Moscow, 2019

 

 

It is not our intention that we should compose such an indictment of the Oligarchy that our reader throws down the manuscript and declares him or herself a revolutionist, for cruel experiences of this world and living in it breed more revolutionaries daily then our pens can expend on poetic syllables.

 

Instead, we wished to put to paper an ethical argument that condemns our oppressors, clearly states their means of oppressive control and thus allows the reader to take what actions thou wilt to participate in the abolition of our collective slavery. We posit like others before us that the system in which we live is exploitative to all within; top and below. We declare that the World System and the Oligarchic Collectives that operate it are but agents of a vast killing machine; sentencing us all to toil ceaselessly; suffer long and die early while they glut themselves on ill acquired wealth.

 

With that indictment we ask the reader a Talmudic question posed by Rabbi Moishe Klein a lieutenant in the resistance army;

 

“A sane person in an insane world is what?’

 

And there by a conscious person in a sleeping world has what duty? And furthermore, if the readers will not be moved by the humble words of this theorist narrator, be moved then by atrocities that are carried out daily paid for in the taxes levied from the sweat of your work and the blood of your fellow humans.

 

We remind you as have others before me; it is not a mere revolution we are fighting. It is the battle for the survival of our species and is still an open question of who will win, for this is an ancient war began long before us and will end long after we are gone. But, far more specifically by what conduct, what actions are appropriate in the face of such a holocaust to ensure that there is still a just and equitable world for our children and grandchildren to inherit.

 

 

The victory of the resistance movement is a question of consciousness. The victory of the Oligarchy is a death sentence for all.

 

 

My name is Sebastian Vasyli Adon. I do believe some of that to still be the name I was born with, but now I have multiple names. In the dead of winter, seven years into the Great Revolt; I was captured along with my gun slinging Haitian partner Watson Entwissle after a firefight in the icy heart of Moscow. We were taken three parts-alive by the Russian Federal Security Bureau and then turned over to their inner most secret police for a most highly spirited interrogation.

 

They ripped out poor Watson’s eyes; then broke most of my ribs as then beat us both for many days and soon I was pissing out blood!

 

I will begin by saying that no matter what great changes or revisions may occur in the depiction of my narration that the world changed forever in a particular way on the 1st of January 2012. Of course, in the constellation of dates there cannot be one discovered moment of alteration total; but instead linkages of great historical movements; migrations toward our human evolution out of darkness and barbarity and inequality; into our natural way.

 

How does one chart such movements; such milestones when they are but realized memes? Realized intuitions that came to that pass as world events based on total boldness.

 

I have not the arrogance to claim a high rank in the revolution, but I will say I was there when it began again in my era. I do not have the audacity to argue that my role was of some significant aspect for I was but always a staff sergeant in the vast chain of command were the ranks of revolutionary war to be applied to the ranks of those who are fighting for peace. I will have you the conscientious readers to know that I am a poet. Yes, a poet; once who delights in making words tell stories; who if left to my own devices would have been happy as a small farmer and passionate lover of my wife and the word; had not the violence swept upon my lands.

 

Did you know that when the Oligarchy cannot conquer a rebellion, they conquer its narrative? Did you know that the truth is not ever truly known except by those who saw a thing with their own eyes? How did it begin? Who was the leadership? What were the demands! These are oligarch questions because the small man or woman; the humble ones; those who submit themselves to a higher power and therefore love life; the children of the believers; we do not beg a political context for the world; one is thrust upon us.

 

Later on when they asked, or should I say interrogated me with beatings, drugs, and electricity why I joined the Great Revolt I laughed and screamed and also cried. Such is torture. How did I become one its so-called leaders, they asked me many times. The demanded I declare the moment when I embraced my zealous beliefs and by what life event wedded my totality to this cause. They pestered me with these questions though throughout their fun and brutal games, But, I had played no large or mighty part except as a member of a small medical detachment putting our meager resources to good use.

 

They, they being the agents of the Oligarchy referred me to a poem published in one of the newspapers of the underground press I had submitted. It was only once piece of the evidence against me, but they claimed my role larger than I ever knew it to be.

 

I can say that I understand the world differently because my memory is longer; because I read books about the past. Because I enjoy reading and because as a poet, a sensitive soul I delight in writing down my base human ideas and sharing them; making common cause with other suffering souls. Dreaming of the day no woman or man will live as they currently do. I have no ability to reconcile myself to a so-called good life while these atrocities, yes they indeed atrocities persist.

 

The tortures went on for many months. They would beat us many times and make us many offers. I have no price after what was taken from me. It was fortunate the resistance wiped away my mind so I could betray only myself. Also, Watson Entwissle is a Haitian and therefore impossible to break. They say we killed an important man in Moscow.

 

“We’ve killed many of your men, and we will kill many, many poor,” that’s what Watson told them.

 

They always beat me roped to the ceiling or on the floor of a cell. The cell was frankly quite clean. I’ve been in many cells and really the one the Russians put us in was premium. They then referred me back to these poems. I’ve never seen such an interest in my poems before. The poems they claimed were proof of my highest-level rebel involvement.

They threaten our families.

 

“You can’t get to our families,” Watson told them.

 

 

They threaten our friends.

 

“You killed most of our friends,” I replied.

 

The uprising had not at that time sufficiently spread to the Russian Federation or the People’s Republic of China, Japan, Australia, New Zealand, the Koreas, or England proper. Only in government organized terrorist attacks or the periodic assassinations we orchestrated. It was raging almost everywhere else. The ground wars between the rebel armies and their proxies were raging in Latin America, the Middle East and Africa.

 

They really did a number on is Russia. But, I remembered nothing, well almost nothing well. I did remember several things, in bursts and flashes. Throughout the brutal interrogations that in a way sustained me through their inflicted brutality. Were these things real or imagined, implanted or devised I have no idea for I know neither science nor high-level Majik?

 

I am aware that there is a secret sleeper organization called the Z.O.B. that is at war with those in total power called the Oligarchy that controls the world system core. I know because I was there as a courier, an orator and gun runner when the Israelites formed it in Tel Aviv.

 

I know that no one knows what those three letters stand for nor are they originally in English. I am aware that agents of that same Oligarchy raped and brutally murdered my wife while pregnant with my child. They later burned my whole city. They killed my family and my friends, my friends of friends and even former lovers and then there were no ideas or beliefs I needed to learn then to fuel my un-ending resistance after these hideous events. There after I then breathed in the smoke monster. I drank only the blood of enemies, and I nourished an unfathomable hate.

 

Finally, I do know that an uprising began in 1791 in a place called Haiti and that it continues reverberating to this very day despite major quarantine and most disastrous setbacks. I know that on January 1st, 1959; that the same revolution spread to the nation of Cuba and has been entrenched there since. On that besieged island nation illiteracy has been irradiated. Their people live longer and in some degrees with more dignity than in the empire called the United American States. They say things come in threes. Who says that? Well, I forget. All things do though, for on 1st January 2012 that long quarantined revolt fought on the fringes of the developing world erupted on the streets of Port-Au-Prince and spread like wild fire worldwide, yet again. After what I lost and what I suffered, what those I loved most suffered. I joined it unflinchingly.

 

 

I know that I am entitled to certain protections under the Geneva Accords I will not receive as a uniformed combat Pararescueman. Clad in my rebel blue. Shield 2952 of the 99th Airborne Division from the Breuklyn Soviet, the new epicenter of the latest phase of our latest and most glorious uprising in the Americas.

 

 

They then beat me for many more weeks. They ripped out my finger nails. They drugged me into nightmarish worlds of horrible, grisly torture. Made me revisit all my losses, all my defeats and degradations. They called me “terrorist” as though it were my very name. They demanded I tell them “who are my true leadership”, “where is Emma Solomon?” “Where is Avinadav DeBuitléir?” They have nothing to gain because I know nothing but what I have already confided in you.

 

I am a just a worthless American exile. A writer and a poet who makes silly rhyming poems to bed young women. I’ve contributed nothing another million young women and men won’t put down beside me on the table of the war.

 

You murdered my entire family; I periodically think inside myself.

 

Therefore, I joined the rebel alliance as uniformed Pararescueman 2952 of the 99th Airborne Division, also known as the Fighting 99th. It was we who helped retake Port Au Prince briefly in 2009 from the Brazilian and Argentine occupation. It was we who took back Jerusalem in 66, 112, and again in 1210ce. It was we who refused to surrender when all was taken away.

 

And such was the only thing still etched in my mind under vast torture. Periodically I wondered if I could hear Watson screaming. But, it is against the code of the Haitian gentleman to break under torture, and I doubted, therefore, the screaming was coming from him.

 

In another life. Before knowledge of their atrocities sent me out to first to Palestine. Then later to study in Cuba. Then to Haiti, Iraq, and Syria where I saw with my own eyes the fullness of genocide the Oligarchy was capable. Before I had read my Orwell, my Marx, my Zinn, of course, my Emmanuel Wallerstein. And then my Chomsky; peppered in with my beloved musings of tortured Mayakovsky, my Bell Hooks, my Emma Goldman, some Rist too. Or the intellectual excellence of Kropotkin, Bakunin, Proudhon, Luxembourg and so many, many others. Those doomed idealists and wandering rebel scribes. They all suffered grave mental illness to dared to theorize on our long promised coming emancipation. Those progressive privileged seculars! Those unrepentant exile part Jews many. Perhaps I was inclined to read more from my own tribe.

 

So many books and not even enough life times!

 

Blessed was I learn to value of reading. A lost, proud, and dangerous art, the gateway to all sedition. It taught me a secret code to see the world in ideas, possibilities and hope.

 

Once I was a young man; filled with hope and promise. When the towers of the empire fell I was living on a kibbutz in the land of American occupied Israel writing small poems. I was laying out my very first novel I was working the land I thought was mine. I was laying sprinkler drip lines. I was picking tomatoes and cucumbers. Drinking cola in the heat of Middle Eastern summer after work. I was having flirtatious and sweaty affairs. I was learning to make small art and being very much in love.

 

They refer me to some poem that supposedly appeared in something called the “Banshee News Service” several months ago. Of course, I deny anything they claim I am party too. “Banshee, isn’t that a ghost,” I ask. And a truncheon strikes my jaw.

 

All I see now is her smile. The smile of the only woman I will forever love. Beaming at me as we lay in the sands by the boardwalk. There was so much hope that day we met that we could both leave this grim foreign city together and a bleak serf’s life.

 

Who or what, how now, why is my Dasha?

 

Dorogaia, my dear one, I have failed you again most terribly. Where are you now! What have I again done to me and to you!! Or what new thing have I allowed to happen by own powerless frail human hands!!!

 

After reading me this trifle wearing both a hideous and vaguely comical mask. One my many interrogators then smashed my face with a truncheon again. And such was the only evidence they ever presented me with. A stupid, ugly non-rhyming poem. A ridiculous, minuscule Partizan Song.

 

Written in Gematria, the Secret Ivory Code, ah ha; you’d have to know what that is your ugly one souled masked pigs! You’ve never met a Jew like me. Trained so well to steal, and heal and kill.

 

In another life, I wrote a boat load of stupid little poems no one ever read except her. Interestingly enough, or perhaps commonly my mind retreats into itself to escape the shame and torture. Also the unending pain of my total human sympathy. I should state comrade, my untouchable solidarity. My empathy as though each human misery was happening to my own flesh, and my own blood.

 

My memories it seems are crafted devices, walls of data to waylay my opponents and thus shelter my closest surviving friends and associates. What for are then these ridiculous poems? I call them but a masochistic hobby horse. But, they were all written just for her alone. The only woman who looked into my soul, and I into hers and we knew in that first meeting that we had always been together no matter how many lives we’d been torn apart. The poems, tough in English only, softer in Russian; they are my only way to put in words what she made me feel every minute of every   Though they are not all without some talented intent, they serve me no good, not once or ever.

 

I wrote them all to four particular Russian women, but they were all a reflection of the first love, the only love that could ever matter on the level of the soul. The one they took from me in November of 2001.

 

“Love early and love often!” she once told me. There are so many kinds of love, so many gradients. Each magnifies the hero in me; each allowed me to survive the long years in the underground.

 

I did feel something for nearly everyone I ever kissed, mostly everyone, but after the loss of the first I didn’t ever love myself so could never be anyone’s proper companion. Just a ghost. Just a handsome smiling corpse to exchange art, and flesh and fluids.

 

It cannot ever be said or assumed that any of the four subsequent loves, incredible women all were properly loved. I loved each with equal rigor. As a dead man and a zealot, we all did our best. My lovers all tried to breathe life into a corpse. Our poetry, paintings, songs and sex art itself were manifestations of those attempts. They are not equal loves, and they were not all backed up with the same stuff. The same total longing. The same level of doing my deeds after my words.

 

It should be clear that while I slept in and beside these four women over a period of some eight years; I did only love one actually in a shall we say, humane way. And only she loved me back in that same way. Everything in life takes time.

 

Now, in flashbacks, they’re yelling something loud in Russian! I pretend as though I do not speak it not at all, not one word. But how could I not for all and every of my strangest tragic loves taught me my greatest lessons in that language.

 

They are demanding all these pieces of myself I cannot even hope to deliver. These interrogators and also those four famous women. Though I took more than I probably gave, I did okay for a dead man.

 

It seems they are less interested in the recently murdered guard colonel. They claim we killed a national icon! My Haitian partner Watson and I may have played the part of highway men to gun down dispatch. For a paramedic, in recent years we’ve killed more than a few.

 

It needed doing.

 

The torturers are less interested in our baser affiliations. It seems that the firm arm of the Russian Oligarchy is most concerned with the end of summer liaison that happened many years prior with a young buxom émigré from the city of Penza whose name was Daria Andreavna Skorobogatova who for some time I called Dasha. Or Dashutka, to be even more sweet, always against her liking or better judgment. She always preferred me more brutal, daring and infamous. Not sad, not sobbing, not inflamed in the tragedy of the world. Do not ask me to quantify my loves and my longings for I cannot.

 

I think that I’ve lost a lot of blood.

 

I will not accept, that even now they have the upper hand. Shall I dare say, cannot, tell these torturers what names I have invented. Or, under what puzzling circumstances came upon me when I shed the privileges of my imagined identity. I used my whiteness against the enemy. That is the basis of all my high crime. I abandoned my lesser American aristocracy to make new friends in the Black and Russian quarters. I learned the healing trades of Cubans. I fought for the Muslims. I placed myself hopefully in the arms of sweet humanity. Because of that original transgression, I have made so many new friends. As well as eternal enemies.

An Introduction to Well Meaning Adversity

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Introduction

 

 

 

Beginning in the year 2000 a diffuse, evolving and highly decentralized movement emerged in the Cities of Jerusalem, Tel Aviv and New York City. The central thesis of the young Palestinian, Israeli, Kurdish and American leaderships that formed and sustained this clandestine movement was firstly; that the American Empire was a dangerous and expansive force in the world predatory to its own citizens and made rich off the backs of the rest of the world’s exploited subjects. Pursuing a sanitized version of the imperialism utilized to dominate the world’s non-white populations over 500 years. Second, that armed struggle had largely failed expansively in the past 200 years to liberate humanity from exploitation if anything triggering generations of intercommunal bloodshed and atrocity. Thirdly, that any revolution limiting itself to the nation state unit was destined to become isolated, easily quarantined and ultimately fail reduced in economic attrition and siege. This movement that began, as many do, with young students has blossomed into a global network of seasoned organizers, embedded on six continents within the leading unions, NGOs, political parties and social movements that we refer to today as “the Resistance.”

 

That is not assume that this faction was alone in arriving at these ideas or that far before and long after others would not come to them on their own. This is simply a book, subject to amendment and evolutions, that will attempt to identify the principles of one small band of partisans and activists. Unique in that they emerged from the Empire’s richest principle city and its outmost military colony base; occupied Israel and Palestine.

 

On 3 July 2001 the First Congress was held in Tel Aviv. By 2003 there were several hundred cadre and sympathizers organized around New York City, White Plains, Boston, DC, Baltimore, Saratoga, Burlington, Elizabeth and Madison in the USA; and a network of cells throughout Israel and Palestine centered around a leadership in Tel Aviv and Nablus as well as a youth movement in Haifa and Beer Sheva. Initially the movement in the States focused almost wholly on secret fund raising for the Resistance in Israel, opposition to the Afghan and Iraq wars, and an ambitions popular education effort to radicalize and indoctrinate young Americans to anti-capitalist, anti-authoritarian liberation thinking through popular education. The movement inside of Israel and Palestine, more focused on survival, carefully expanded cells into leftist progressive formations and infiltrating the IDF thanks to conscription.

 

The First Congress on 9 July 2001 in Florentine Tel Aviv issued the first draft of the “Ten Point Program for the Resistance in Israel and Palestine”. The ideological tendencies of the nineteen founders, all of which were younger than 25 ranged from Marxist-Leninism and Anarcho Syndicalism on the left, to religious nationalism, Christian Liberation Theology, Shiism and Baha’i Universalism, as well as Revisionist Zionism and Universal Zionism at the center and right. The political platform called for an armed uprising inside the Jewish Military colony to inspire a broader encircling campaign throughout the developing world to cut the Northwest (OECD States) off from cheap labor and commodities while developing a framework for sustainable non-state governance and provision of social services.

 

Articulating the program of the subsequent seven congresses as well as compiling the communiques, pamphlets and speeches of its young leadership was the “little grey book” retitled in 2004 “The Grey Book”, a collective manuscript based around the movement’s emerging theories and tactics toward achieving universal human rights, participatory democratic governance and emancipatory development.

 

You are reading the 8th Edition; circulated immediately before an upcoming 8th Congress.

 

The first edition of the Grey Book was released in 2001. Its principal authors, and architects of the movement that would follow were Avinadav DeBuitléirs (Black Israelite, Israeli citizen), Emma Solomon (Sephardic Israeli citizen), Zachariah Artstien (American-Israeli dual citizen), Nicholai Trickovitch (American citizen), Malka Dror (Russian Israeli dual Citizen) and Gene Dissentious (American). Most of the American movement and its supporters were unaware throughout most of the entire period of organizing inside the United States that the leadership of their group was for the most part being formulated inside of Israel-Palestine.

 

Some 40,000 copies of ever expanding and revising editions were put in circulation between 2002 and 2005.

 

At the fourth Congress held in New Jersey, USA in 2005 the organization was split into several defacto front groups; a media and television company, a student front based in the State and City University System, a unit to infiltrate the Democratic Party prior to the Barak Obama election campaign, a unit to develop community survival programs, a unit for continued popular education and clandestine military arm called the People’s Defense Forces (PDF).

 

By the fifth Congress in 2009 it was decided to launch a trade union and printed newspaper for EMS and civil servants called the Banshee News Service/ Banshee Association and develop capability for overseas deployment. In 2010 the organization’s New York based cadre and sympathizers began a 5 year effort to smuggle trainers and supplies to Haiti after the earthquake to drill and train EMT medical workers. This continued successfully until 2014 when it became self-sustaining.

 

In 2013 two leaders of the clandestine movement received scholarships to Brandeis University and began the process of organizing the approximately 400 foreign nationals at the Heller School for Social Policy and Management into a student union a new branch of the movement to be called the Development Union (D/U).

 

In the foothills West of Boston, U.S.A. in the year 2013 we found ourselves interred in a special kind of research camp where with some 400 mostly foreign nationals we devised over two years and in numerous conversations many means to alter and affect the state of human development, which was dire and quite bleak. As we had all the maps, photos and data in front of us some of us sought jobs in big NGOS, others in their home governments and some of us imagined our future as revolutionary. This was not any academic exercise to most of us, most of us were from the places we studied and had seen the war first hand. It radicalized some of us maybe, sharing all these biting first-hand accounts from around the world on the horrid state of affairs.

 

Confirming that we were neither crazy nor alone. This manuscript is a collection of the speeches, essays, white papers and pamphlets issued by the various wings of the clandestine movement.

 

In May of 2015 at the 7th Congress the Banshee Association (the New York based cadre), the Haitian Emergency Group (GAI, the Port Au Prince based cadre) and a new international group from the Heller School codified a program based on Cuban medical internationalism, principles of solidarity and selected a political platform based on the Kurdish ideology of Democratic Confederalism.

 

On July 4th, 2016 a General Coordinating Committee was incorporated in New York to proliferate the training of medical workers.

 

By 2017 the movement still largely concentrated in New York and Israel had spread via Union Shops, cells, front groups and a dispersion of elected leadership to every inhabited continent on earth. After successful consensus was reached by the leadership around the tactics of remote training for social services via the concept of mass capacity; the movement began smuggling personnel and equipment to the world’s only Democratic Confederalist zone on 26 May 2017; Rojava, Syria.

The Surivals Dance, s.1

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Scene One

Opening credits, the Iron Curtain Rises

Setting-“My heart is on my bloody soaked, evil caked sleeve.”

 

Reads Maria Silverrtova:

Let me roll up my sleeves and also my skirt, a little! Look at me in the eyes! I have all my teeth to bite. So sexy and educated and multi-lingual. What, a, catch to catch. I am a wild debutante, elusive and amazing. I am a journalist of course, forced to pour men off shots in a tavern downtown.

Zdrastvistia! The purpose of this play is to buy and sell luxury carrots. Also a flying carpet to get you home after all the bullshit we will make you sit through telling Russian American tales. Also to warn you about Chechnyans, and also to distribute out a phone number where slaves with abused lives can get J 1, S 1 or go to college. There is singing and poems. We will try and pour you things called Vodka, but it’s not vodka; to us it’s like water for wound care.

Good and bad men went to war and women also went to war, and Americans and Russians watched out the corner of the Newspaper or telescreen. And of course supplied the arsenal and the airstrikes.

The papers called them “the Chechnyans” because when the war kept going, people came back trained in god-only-knows how much carnage capability. The war I’m referring to is the Syrian Civil War/ the Revolution in Rojava which was a phantom menace to all. But it was more a dark dream based on improbable odds. Chechens, are in fact a very real jihadist menace that fought us to the last bullet in Mosul, Raqqa and Deir-A-Zor. They brought their whole families into the Jihad. These re-moniquored “Chechnyans” weren’t like them. They were secular and young, and mostly on the Kurdish or Shi’a side, or the Pesh Merga. They all left our families at home. There were plenty of war path teams and factions, mine/ ours was the most moral, but lived in a state of total delusion. They were following a pudgy faced aging man in Turkish solitary confinement. We thought breaking rocks was a useful form of soliloquy.

 

Reads Sebastian Adonaev:

I kissed her very hard against both our better judgment. Last time I kissed her like air. I saw her un-maked unpacked, un-made-up Slavic beauty face on her birthday, before we did one last job on St. Pat’s day. We weren’t supposed to do jobs like that in Midtown, people get upset.

I pulled her through to my reality, for the last time and she was completely pissed. The reality wasn’t very nice because it wasn’t the American dream she had set out to conquer on someone else’s name. That name and those papers had failed her mightily.  I yanked her through to the other side. The serf side, the Warsaw ghetto side. I was still just a petty gun slinger, Syrian Civil War vet on the run from the war in Syria and my own mind. I did 80 days in Bellevue City hospital and filth was still on my fingers, elbows and toes. I hadn’t slept well even one night.

She was still just a high end whore a year later? Not fair but probably true. But she wasn’t like Maria from Moscow anymore, doing what she did and still does with her tits and high ball shots and take home party favors. She was way over long walks with artists. She was regressing into Capitalist Modernity, the place she’d always wanted to end up, was now boring. Her suitors never waned. Especially the pesky Brahman roommate.

It has been a long road from Havana to Brooklyn to Russia, into the Middle East and back. With stopovers in where civilization has come to a resolute end in the Fertile Crescent. Burning down river by river shore to deep sands of desolation.

My name was once Sebastian Adonaev, but the Kurds named me Blacksmith Winter, or Kawa Zivistan. The Arabs, they needed to name me too so they called me Zacharias Abu Yazan. Because my then girlfriend correspondent Polina has a son named Yazan. I was 33 when I deployed but looked and felt younger. Her name, my timeless old Muse was Dasha, but this isn’t about her. The other books were all about her. This is about the time a Syrian war vet caught feelings about Maria Silverrtova, a buxom little Chechnyan, like him. No, it was about picking up the shattered pieces of this nightmare, resiliently.

This is a cry for some extra hands, some Hamsas, that survived to talk about the Syrian Civil War. This is a love song after a series of hard fucks in Spanish and love making in Russian. This is a Post-Soviet Lullaby, written in Imperial English. I have heard on the wire that Anya is losing her mind in Baghdad and Ana Campbell, that optimistic young woman I have hand grenades to; well she dead and here I am in Capitalist Modernity’s heart, doing nothing but stupid love songs.

 

Reads a deceased Ana Campbell:

Yes, forgive me loved ones, I died immediately in an airstrike in Afrin. My body was in, smithereens. Afrin was until it was overrun by Jihadists and the Turkish state, the Western most canton of Rojava; the besieged revolutionary movement called Democratic Confederalism that defeated ISIS and took over 45% of Syria, until the Turks began to genocide us in April 2017. I died pretty. I was a true believer. Sebastian blames himself for my death, but really I was a true believer in the cause. I could have died much worse if the Turkish Army or its proxies took my alive. I would have been gang raped. And had my head cut off eventually.

Sebastian lives with his guilt but Dan Newey another guerrilla I almost kissed, he does not. Dan Newey is in in British prison accused of terrorism. He mourns me loudly. Honestly, we all lost a lot defending the Rojava Revolution, but we internationalists that the papers call  the new Chechnyans, we were actors on a stage of world events, but we didn’t do that much. Now I’m dead, which I’ll tell you seems like being on the mountain without being shot at. It’s peaceful, I’ll have him tell you that. I died with my AK in hand. I believed in this, I wasn’t mentally ill. I wasn’t a bandit girlfriend. This was, this is, big and important, but sadly as far as self-defense; a mirage. Without American airstrikes to back us up we melted under Turkish airpower.

At the time of writing this my corpse is still behind Turkish lines and it looks like Mambij and then all of Rojava will fall to the Turkish Army, a U.S. ally and second biggest in NATO. I am happy and dead. But vicariously I grieve for my Arab and Kurdish comrades who prepare to make Shahid Namorey (immortal martyrdom).

 

Reads Cancer the Guerrilla:

 

Actually, I tried to prepare them for a lifestyle of revolutionary militancy. Kill the enemy. Kill the enemy before the enemy can airstrike, execute, torture or disappear you and your friends. I don’t think they all got it. The training was just too short. They retained much of their Western bourgeoisie privileges. They thought it would maybe be like a movie. It’s a shame the woman died, she was the one with possibly the very most potential, excluding the Germans. That’s all I can say about that, Heval.

La Lingre, s.0

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Prelude

 

 

Camp Shrakasa Waltham, 2079ce

 

 

The year is winter 2079ce, the setting, a grim gulag hidden from normal sight in the Eastern coast of the United American States outside the City State of Greater Boston. The snow falls so hard you can’t see the roads anymore, can’t see but ten feet in front of you. We are caught in a thick and deadly, white deluge.

 

Adelina Blazhennaya is lovely and petit, but very striking is her sense of presence, when you are with her you have her largely undivided attention. She is completely disarming, you let your guard slip. Which is dangerous as she is lovely, and you are surely mad. The very way she looks at you lingers long after she is gone.

 

On ne voit bien qu’avec le cœur. L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux,” she quotes to herself from the Little Prince, “one sees clearly only with the heart. What is essential is invisible to the eye.

 

  There is a vast spiritual war going on, invisible for an extended time to most people and she has great soul, and is after a very particular soldier. It is still fashionable for Russian elites to know French. She was born of elite White Russian family, living in Zurek, and that is her passport cover story says, hiding that she is in fact a Grey Russian of a card carrying Red family from the City of Chelyabinsk.

 

Long live the Putinists!

 

She is wearing a blue and mostly white dress and her gold brown hair blows in the summer wind, but is now hidden under a most heavy almost yellow Shirling coat. Her big bright hazel eyes are concealed below some fashionable sun glasses. For she is a perpetually truthful person but has had to lie all day to get through layers of armed men to get at her assignment.

It has taken her half a day traveling from Camp Brighton-Allston to bribe sentries, to take three trains and an omnibus, to flirt most professionally, ensnare the camp guards in false paper works and transfer documents and thus make her way to Shrakasa Waltham, sub-camp Brandeis; the largest Special Engineering Camp built by the Ivories in the Americas, but really one thousands of “special population camps” built for citizens of suspect loyalty after the Great Revolt, a very incomplete revolution that happened four years prior to the events of this yarn.

 

This place that holds the mentally imprisoned and prisoners of this war, mainly Chornay, some Fenian surfs and deranged, crossbred Jeufs with their Christ killing ways and mental deceits.

 

Waiting for her is the “dead man” Sebastian Adon. And he has a feeling of nervousness in his chest. Steel butterflies. The kind of nervous anticipation that does not come from being more than intimidated by a very, very beautiful young woman. It comes also from secretly loving her. Or something about her.

Handsome for a dead man, she thinks. And nothing but fucking trouble, she curses sometimes inside but hardly ever outside.

The State run national television company News Corporation has been running his face and face of his “wife” Emma Solomon for weeks along with sound bites on the “dead terrorist ring leaders of the Millennium Theater Hostage Crisis.”

That bloody three day standoff which ended the union called the United States of America definitively breaking sixty four small city states and territories, Soviets, from the rest of the country including the black parts of neighboring Boston.

She looks him and down and he is not exactly the same man she had met years before, and had corresponded with since periodically. Along with the dreaming they did.

He is handsome but he has dark shadows below his eyes, which though hidden under hazel contacts are grey on grey associated with never properly sleeping.

The eyes of the Old Souls.

He looks recently broken. As though smiling comes with great difficulty. As if the words and beliefs he hides behind are in actuality no true armor.

She wonders what the proper body language to assume is; to cordially shake his hand as a comrade; or to kiss his cheeks has an old friend, or, well they were not lovers or even old friends. And this was their second time meeting. In the world of the real they had met just one single time, on one single evening. But in dreams they had something else altogether.

She was never nervous, but she did regard this man as a certain threat. A threat not to her life or her mind, certainly not to her heart because her heart was numb to all words and deeds done by men. Having kissed his very souls, having spent night, after night in his mind; she worried that he might know her souls a little too. And this was a very difficult thing to accept as a candidate.

Firstly, that this murderer was from the blood of the chosen. Secondly, that he seemed unable to die. Thirdly, that in the real world he might actually desire her. Lastly, that it was her duty to accept him as a courier from here to newly liberated New York City, when his driving, according to all accounts was much worse than her own.

It would be one thing to be killed or tortured by the enemy. This was the constant risk of aiding the resistance, but to die because an American never learned to properly drive; unthinkable.

The way that she moves is not like human women, she has elegance and force in equal parts, and there then emerges a disarming smile and she quite nearly thinks to embrace him. To hold him with a tightness that in dreams is so familiar, but in the world they have but shaken hands only once. She has done it in dreams a hundred times. And so many other things with him. She has raced dragons with him and explored the surface of the moon.

He stands there leaning against his vehicle a white Charger 2009.  Which, for all its lack of fuel efficiency will be worth nothing unless her paper work permits his release for if he leaves the boundary of Waltham Third Perimeter Shrakasa; his aorta will explode. Oh quite literally.

 

And what’s an exploding aorta to a man who has never been able to die?

 

A painful waste of a third dimensional opportunity to transform the human condition, that’s what. He is wearing the grey multiform, permitted to his faction. Her white skirt with blue linear patterns blows in the subtle but refreshing August winds.

Has he ever torn her clothing off in a dream? Has she ever let him reduce her to another conquest, another bedded woman making an excuse of her own lusts and her own physical wants? No not ever once! He has asked to be held and so she held him tight; he has held her delicate and painterly hands. They have danced under the stars in over a thousand and one sequences of brightly colored controlled dreaming.

And those dreams were beautiful.

She strides ever closer and she sees his half smile, the left side of his face mostly. There were so many reasons why a whole smile was impossible to the gun slinging, rebel hooligan Sebastian Adon; but she immediately feels the entirety of his gaze, his full attention brought to bear just to take in her. And that half smile, she knows is the fullest thing to showing happiness he can in this life bear to muster.

I will just extend my hand and then step back for the right hand salute given by otriad fighters to their commanding officers, he thinks.

I will marshal all my best parts, knowing that she is a sacred woman and that my place in the chain of command is now different since culmination of the uprising, since the eradication of my otriad, since, since the debacle of my relations with the woman named Natasha Andreavna Moonskaya, the tragedy of which I have not fully reconciled. And she is all but too familiar with the moving parts thereof. An embarrassment of my judgment.

My goodness, he thinks; I’m must suppress my longing for this woman before me.

She walks with grace and power, she is in control of all her moving parts and in control of the fields of energy which are in perfect coordination top to bottom.

I will never let this man seduce me, she thinks. He is a rough and primitive creature, despite the fullness of his soul’s ambitions. Despite his mother being of the priestly class. What is more, she thinks, how did this warrior get reduced to slavery over a wild woman? In certain circles he is still called the ‘American Shamel Basayev’. And most official circles think he is finally dead. But, the reason he was stashed away into the enemy gulag archipelago was not simply because this was good place to hide him in plain sight. It was because he was being punished by the leadership. He had been on trial awaiting sentencing for 38 counts of infraction including lack of spiritual discipline; conduct unbecoming a rebel Calvary officer; four counts of massacre; three counts of ‘incorrect use of the word love’ and one very serious count of ‘complete self-compromise accompanying jeapordization of mission via liaison with a woman possibly aiding the enemy.’

Enguarte.

The trial had not concluded, yet the full findings were complicated. And, of course his “wife” and partner is a woman with considerable influence with the rebel leadership and the Godhead.

Something tingles in the base of his spine. Like Tiger Balm.

Something glows in the gold brown depths of her eyes.

I will not allow my emotions to cloud my perception of the facts, he tell himself from the Code of the Haitian Gentleman.

I will not fall for this man and his tragic albeit heroic existence, she swears to the code of her own integrity.

Shake her hand, this is the second time meeting; salute and take her to supper while the transfer papers deactivate the Nanobots in my skull, he checklists.

She will take his hand, this is our second time meeting; accept his salute which acknowledges her leadership over him, let him take me dinner, while the paper works clears and bribes are wired, she thinks. Let him take me what was once four hours, but now is four days drive down the coastal highway from the United American States toward the mile high wall, New York and the Breuklyn Soviet. Where most likely the judges will order two shots to his head. His head cut off. And his soul bottled up forever in limbo as he pays for his roundabout decisions that cost everyone so damn much.

I’m thankful it’s her that I will be working with, he think. If they’re going to kill me in New York, at least I get to spend the last four days with her.

Shake and salute, he affirms.

Shake and begin the road to sentencing she affirms.

She’s less than four feet beautiful from him.

And best the best of preparations yield to passion.

They throw their arms around each other and embrace like two long lost lovers separated by battle and sea and fate and the cruelty, the duality of some very, very bad decisions made during the war. They are locked so tight cheek to cheek.

This is the second time they’ve ever met in the world of the real.

He can feel her heart beating, she can feel him breath. Their souls make love right there on the roof of his car, they don’t let go for what is in real time a hot minute. But time stopped for them both the minute they held each other again.

They step back. He then salutes. And he passes her a note without saying overtly what she knows may be in his heart. Inscribed on his very ventricles.

She takes glance at the note. It is quite obvious that the man likes to write his mind out. There are a thousand tiny characters in Cyrillic, she knows what they will tell her even if the grammar is a mess and the spelling is poorly.

They immediately embrace again. Tighter still. She looks into the note over his shoulder.

It is very poor form to love a man who in four days will be sentenced to a final death.

“Don’t say it,” she whispers. Nearly pleads.

“I won’t. I’ll just show it,” he replies.

“You have less than four days,” she whispers.

“I know,” he says.

“Why did you do all of those things,” she says right into his ear and grips him even tighter.

“My passion overwhelmed me,” replies Sebastian Adon.

She steps away from him, still so close though that that the angels inside of them may still be holding to their ecstasy.

“I find it nearly impossible to be charged with your fate,” she admits.

“The past is a useless story Ms. Adelina.”

“I have read reports of your future too you know,” she retorts.

“The highway to New York is perilous. If my driving makes you nervous we can switch positions ok?”

She now looks him into his eyes.

“That sounds ok. Both sides of you face are smiling at me,” she says.

“That’s because I’m standing before the woman of my dreams.”

“Watch you words little Prince,” she warns him.

“Don’t call me that please,” he replies.

“Sebastian, the road to New York is perilous and I want you to promise me that you you’re going to remain in control of your emotions. That you’re not going to break your word to me on any level. And, that no matter what they do to you in New York I’m going to be at your side and you need to be by mine, in the way that is appropriate.”

“I promise Ms. Val. Appropriately.”

“Ok, start the car. If you don’t make me completely comfortable with your driving I’m taking over and you’re going to have to ride shot gun all the way down. Which isn’t very manly in my cultural context.”

“It’s good to see you again,” says Sebastian Adon.

She nods in quiet agreement.

She never knew him in another life. And that was a little exciting. He’d never dreamed with a woman before. That was thrilling, that kind of investment in him. Even if she’d mostly been in his head tinkering with the wiring.

“Give me your gun,” she declares.

He takes out a small revolver and hands it to her. She checks the chamber and notes that there are no bullets in the gun. She puts it into her satchel.

“Do you remember why we used to take pictures of the sky and text them to each other,” she asks him.

“No. I always assumed you were just artistic,” he replies.

“There’s nothing like a beautiful sky to substitute for love when love is gone, or hope when hope hopeless,” she tells him.

“You’re Russian, you’re not supposed to believe in hope,” he says.

She takes his hand.

“Your American, you’re not supposed to know what the word love means at all but I’m giving you a shadow of a doubt. You have one chance left to make a man of yourself. Otherwise they’re gonna hang you for happened during the rising.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says.

“It’s nice to be appreciated,” she replies, “now let’s get ready for the road.”

 

He almost says it. But she gives him a look.

“Be a real man and check your passion until the proper time,” says the look.

 

The sky above Shrakasa Waltham is pink, blue vanilla and the weather is beautiful because the Ivories have developed cloud seeding weather apparatuses. There are no more open Ivories in the United American States except here in this camp of 70,000 in the Massachusetts foothills outside rebel Boston which, like New York is no longer part of America.

If you’re just tuning in to our frequency; if you want to know what kind of story this is. Well it’s definitely some kind of passion play; a Post-Soviet epic love story.

In the previous Act we learned of man who didn’t know how to die and his tortured love affair with an agent of the enemy. In Act One we learned something of his passion.

How there came to be a full blown human rights revolution in the United States of America had very little to do with those two protagonist-antagonists. And the uprising itself was not the work of men and women alone, but also gods and spirits, monsters and suffering old souls.

We began with loyalty because it is the basis for all good human acts. And now we jump seven years before the event of the first part of our serial; to account for the things which were unleashed by woman and men enraptured by their passions.

This interlude has taken place before Act One and after what you are about to embark on reading.

Adelina was ordered to accompany Sebastian Adon to newly liberated New York City; to a besieged place called the Breuklyn Soviet. It was not purely to keep him calm before his execution. It was also to directly ascertain the very specific particulars of what he had compromised to the enemy.

“I don’t judge you for anything you have done, but I am quite curious as to why you did it,” declares as he puts the Dodge Charger in drive.

“We were all in a most uncomfortable situation,” Adon begins as they take to the road, “there were past lives to account for, there was hope and investment in the future, there were debts to pay.”

“You need to tell me everything that happened in the six months before the uprising,” Adelina flatly tells him.

“Must I?”

“I cannot save you and I cannot fix you or tame you, but if you will tell me the truth and stick to your promises I will make sure that you get what you deserve one way or another.”

There is a dinner at a weigh station on the lip of the black tarmac highway. To get to New York they will have to take a more circuitous route. They will eat there and wait until the sun goes down. They will have to switch vehicles, they will have to evade bandits and other various gentlemen of the road. They will need to grease many hands at check points staffed by rebel and federal and gangster armies. And eventually they will have to fly over or find a tunnel under the mile high wall.

“There’s going to be plenty of time,” she tells him, “You need to go slow and get deep with me on this.”

“Must I?”

“Yes you must. You are accountable only for this life, but it is unclear to me and other interested parties not only what you did in your past lives, but who’s side you’re on now.”

He thinks about it.

“I’m only on your side now,” he whispers.

“Well that is because your old friends now want you dead and your enemies think you’ve been buried already. You have only two allies left and Oleg the Bear is still temporally missing in the Urals.”

Or perhaps at the weigh station just up federal Highway 95.

“My wife sent you?” asks Sebastian Adon.

“Yes. Emma Solomon sent me.”

“She’s not really my wife.”

“I know she’s not really your wife.”

“Does Emma think I betrayed the resistance?”

“No. Emma just thinks you mostly betrayed yourself.”

“And what do you think Ms. Adelina?”

“I think you have a brief window to prove your place in history. As a great hero or a despicable traitor who sold out his closest friends to make a deal with the devil over a two bit whore that he got tricked into thinking was his old soul lost companion.”

“Those are strong words,” says Adon watching the road unfold.

“I’m a very strong woman.”

“That’s why I might…” but he shuts off. You can’t put a timeline on a dream or series of dreams.

“When I met you on my birthday I thought you were a charming scoundrel. But I have come to realize that I believe you innately to be good. I am unclear still on what happened leading up to and during the rising and if I am to be your true friend I must know that in totality before we arrive in New York.”

“When I met you I knew immediately that I must see you again and that you were not like anyone I’d known before.”

“Honey, pick your words well.”

“Ms. Adelina, I’m worried I let my passions get the best of me.”

“Well we shall see and we shall hear,” is all she replies.

The car accelerates, the road unfolds faster. She tells herself he is a most precarious man. There are both merit and dangers to that. He tell himself to review what he knows about this world and world to come.

The highway has many, many perils.

“There were so many nights that I could no longer trust myself and you were there to teach me.”

“Start with the relevant beginning,” she says.

“I am sure that one cannot love another when one hates themselves.”

“Do you hate yourself Sebastian Adon?”

“In another life, because of beliefs I held and reckless actions I took in the name of our freedom the enemy took from me. A woman and a child. I have never slept well, nor lived happy since.”

Tu deviens responsable pour toujours de ce que tu as apprivoisé,” she says in French, “you become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”

Again with the Little Prince, he thinks sardonically.

“If my inherited memories are true then I have caused some great amounts of carnage for cause and country.”

“I do not know if they are all true,” replies Adelina.

“I am quite happy you’re here. There is no more preferable a witness I could ask to vouch for me,” he says.

They’re gonna end you in New York, she thinks and he hears.

“I vouch for nothing honey, I know you only as a magical dream. But, the road is long enough for you to reconcile that. Don’t let me down ok.”

“I did many things in the name of our cause. I do many things still as acts of passion.”

She takes his hand right hand which he has extended to her, she squeezes it.

“Both hands on the wheel,” she then says.

It is sad to meet a good man four days before he will die. For no matter what he chooses to tell her she knows what he has ultimately done! And nothing can absolve him, nothing he says or does can save his souls. Oleg the Bear said be very careful with him. She has his gun, but she is not aware yet that she also completely has his heart.

If the mind is a limitless tablet, and his animal soul belonged now to devilish promises made, if his godly soul and hers are still quite playfully holding hands in spirit worlds and dreamscapes; what is left is a mechanical heart. A pounding, pulsing drum fueling his war path and guiding his way in the darkness.

The road unfolds empty as they speed to the diner at the junction.

“You don’t have to tell me everything, but please tell me what matters,” she says.

“Only you own and you rattle my bones, you turn me over and over until I can’t control myself,” comes over the Fire Station on the radio. The dancehall version.

She gives him a small look.

He changes the station to Tchaikovsky set with house music.

There are many people that want this man dead or alive. There are swarms of angry vultures circling above the car, metaphorically.

“I’m not in the business of saving souls or fixing people,” she tells him.

“Well how now, what business are you in then,” he smiles.

“I traffic in language and also dreams,” she softly replies.

“And also evidently me,” he says.

For eight months she has been in his mind and there was little she had seen there that would not make normal people nervous. But, Adelina is not like normal people and very little makes her nervous except the possibility that when she stops being numb for lucid intervals she realizes that this rebel bandit has quite possibly fallen for her.

And were it not for circumstances!

She might let herself fall too?

Impossibilities of fate.

The world of now was unfolding right before them and the world of dreams was inconsequential. She has been charged with a messy assignment and she has no back up, nothing to rely on but her will.

“Will you stay in control of your emotions for me honey?” she asks him looking now at the little note he gave her.

“I have made you promises.”

Seven of them she observes in his micro-Cyrillic scrawl.

“Then in good faith I take you as a man of your word.”
“After dinner, before the road I’ll try and explain myself to you darling.”

“Take your time, go slow. Nobody knows you’re alive in this part of the world and when we get to your city I’ll walk through the job.”

“There’s a job still for me then?” he exclaims.

“What you thought this was just going to be a dark Russian American love story?”

“Well I don’t know what the genre is.”

What’s a rose to a fox,” she asks him eliciting for the third time the phrases she’s programed him with to access his dreams.

What’s a jackknife to a swan,” he replies in the code that they have used for eight months on the satellite phone before bed.

“Don’t hurt me,” he says.

“I don’t have it in me,” she replies, “just show me your soul and I’ll show you mine. Try not to kill anybody on the road to New York.”

He wonders if she’s talking about his driving.

“In your culture what is more important; loyalty or passion?” she asks.

“What are you getting at?”

She pulls out the silver steel hand of the hamsa around her hung neck and flashes it for him out the corner of his right eye. Except he had given it to her in a dream.

“Don’t tell me you love me again until you can love yourself as well. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe in your potential for good. But if you break your promises to me you’ll prove your enemies right.”

“Adelina, I…”

He wants to pull over and taste her again like it was in the dreams.

“Don’t say it,” she warns, “keep driving. I’m hungry and as a Haitian gentlemen you must of course never allow a woman to be hungry.”

She knows his code, she knows most of his story, but there is still a four day window for the highly unusual things to occur.

He watches the road, both hands on the wheel. He doesn’t want to let her down.

“Adhi, I…”

“Honey don’t say it,” she says again firmly.

“Please one time aloud. So you hear it in person as you have it in writing.”

“No. Not yet. Not until you really mean it.”

“I’ve done such crazy things in the name of it, I’ve killed so many people, I’ve invaded three counties, I’ve lost my wife and child, and I’ve died. Over and over again,” he murmurs.

“I know. So don’t say it to me until you know the right words. And you’d better be willing to back them all up with actions.”

“Fair enough.”

“I read your first manuscript, I’m very concerned about your dead wife and child, and also your relations with a certain woman named Natasha Andreavna. It is suspected that your claims to loving have often been subsumed and subverted. It is suspected that you were used. And that your passion over took your word and your loyalty. With most tragic results.”

“Do you believe that then? That I’m a traitor who knows nothing of love?”

“I know we women lead the resistance because we can truly love and you men do most of the killing because you cannot truly feel.”

“You read my first book, you’ve been in my head for eight months. Don’t you know what you’re looking at yet?”

“I’m not clear yet that you can separate your facts from your emotions. And I didn’t read all of your first book, just enough to get a taste of things to come.”

“Adhi, I…”

We wants to say it. He wants to make it into poems and novels and paintings and sketches and thousands of loyal deeds. He wants her to believe in him like he believes in her. He wants her to see that his past can be absolved by his present.

“Baby don’t say it.”

She uses sweet talk sparingly with men she hasn’t gone to bed with. But you go to bed with a man’s dreams, you spend months together in an imagined world you feel a certain intimacy that extends to the physical realm at times.

“We’re almost at the weigh station,” he says.

I will not judge him for anything he has done, she thinks but I will hold him to everything he says so the moment that he says that simple word aloud he will have wedded his cause to me, and that is a complicated and explosive thing indeed. And to repel his advances is a matter of time and orders, but were I to feel again, she thinks, well he is a bit my type.

From the moment that he saw her on her birthday he had known she was a very different creature. He wanted her as a partner by his side. But eight months ago he was blinded still by a distracting influence and reeling from the aftershocks of it. That was when she entered his dreams as the Great Revolt made the long simmering spiritual war a quite bloody contact sport.

Story time again. This time though our parables will draw attention not to violence done in the name of loyalty, but instead the acts done when we are overwhelmed with passion.

Strast,” she says, passion in Russian.

“I’ll tell you how it came to be that I played my part in the uprising,” he says.

She doesn’t like politics, so she responds, “stick to the parts with passion and allow me some insight and judgment as to if you’re the man I’m looking for.”

“Darling don’t be numb,” he says feeling layers of loving that are impossible to verify the source of in the world of the real.

“Darling just be realistic.”

The sun is down. The stars are up. They park at the weigh station and get ready to fill their bellies with food in preparation for the long road to Breuklyn Soviet.

“One last sentimental thing,” he says locking up the car.

“Go on then,” says Adelina, “before I make you have a heart attack,” she smiles.

“If it comes out of my mouth in the next few days that I have done things that upset you I am sorry. Please understand that we all have complicated pasts, and some of us complicated past lives. I swear to you I did not betray the resistance. I swear I will make sense of all this actions; those in New York, those in Haiti, those in Israel and Africa. I swear to you that you will have my undivided loyalty.”

“Listen, if you must you can say it one time, as you have already written a song about it and started a war in its name.”

“Adelina, I…” but he does not say it for he knows how little in English the word means to her and what a mockery he has made of the concept too.

  For a second she turns away. Impossible, she thinks. This is the second time he’s met me! What does he know about love at all?

What a ridiculous notion to love another so quickly!

Based on shared dreams?

“I know. I’ll try and not say it again,” he says a bit ashamed at her reaction.

“It’s not that,” she starts.

“What then?”

“Your words have to count that’s all. You need to not say things just to hear how they sound, you need to say things to declare things that will be.”

“Why do I know you so intimately and still know nothing,” he says.

“Because this is our second meeting,” she jokes, “the rest was just a dream.”

“I…” he stammers, but the word is unable to form.

“You have only just begun to know me. In my culture there is a ridiculous arrogance in saying words you don’t mean when you can’t back them up, said only because you’ve caught up in the heat of something,” she says.

“It’s a very traditional feeling and it is backed up by eight months of dreams.”

“I will wait and see if you feel that way this time next week, for there are many things done in the name of passion, but they are not the same things done in name of love.”

Why can’t I say the word he wonders? And the answer is she will not let him, so strong are her powers over him. For if that word was good fuel in act one for poems, and the basis of the Partizan Song; then we must now examine motives of our Postsoviet Protagonist-antagonists yet anew.

“There is incredible power in language,” she tells him, “but sometimes talk is cheap. You’ve loved early and loved often, and that makes me suspect you also love easily, but all these things are beside the point. We have a treacherous four day journey to reach your city, and then you will be put on trial. It is my duty to inform you that whatever feelings you think you have developed for me in dreams, I am nothing to you now but friend and comrade.”

“I won’t use words I can’t back up with actions.”

“Well I suspect that you may try.”

“I’ve ruined myself several times before over the idea of a perfect woman.”

“Well don’t do that again.”

“You’re not an idea.”

“You don’t know me yet. They say that I have what science has yet to prove in the blood.”

“Well that I believe.”

“Your defenses are lowered, you dreams have been invaded by thoughts of me, and you write well and have pretty brown eyes like mine. But watch the things you say, I will make you put your money where your mouth is. I will make you ready for trial.”

“If things escape my mouth that proclaim some newly forming feelings…”

“We’ll be sure not to act on them,” she says.

And with that in mind they went cautiously to eat supper before they took to the road under the cover of darkness.

  And in real time not much longer.

The dinner at the crossroads is empty except for them two.

Though thoughts of her had pervaded his mind for the past eight months, now sitting across from her about to bite into his Ruben sandwich, the gun slinging ambulance man, a wanted rebel hooligan new little of what to say.

“Why is it that you do not speak any Russian,” she asks him.

“I have no talent,” he replies.

“No talent for language?”

“No talent for listening. It’s my most dishonorable trait.”

“No, being a murderer is your most dishonorable trait. Not speaking Russian means you’re just lazy. You’re file says you’ve had several Russian partners. I call it lazy, though I do not judge you for it.”

“Indeed, well then what is that you judge me for?”

“I have nothing to linger judgment upon at this juncture.”

“I am indeed then lazy and also a bit ashamed. For I do love the thought of knowing that which you think in.”

“I am merely surprised that living and working alongside three Russian speakers you acquired nothing.”

“I acquired some fucking and fighting words. Please believe I bring more to the table than my talent with English.”

“You bring a great deal from what I understand from you wife.”

“Not my…”

“I said before I know what you are to each to each other. It is clear to me that you are far more than a murderous American bandit who while trained to save lives spends most of his energies killing people. ”
              “Can you make no small talk woman!”

“Eat then happily and be quieter,” she replies.

He returns to the Ruben feeling vaguely that for one who claims to never judge she has arrived at some rather serious prejudgments and will be deterred from them.

She wonders if Oleg the Bear will arrive on time or make them wait, or whether he will get there early. She wonder is he will come alone, or bring a woman. And she wonders if that woman will slow them all down.

Sebastian is unnerved by silence. It reminds him of sleep, and also of death and nothing about a silent moment makes him feel at ease. It makes him feel also like an inadequate conversationalist. And he begins to second guess his feelings, having realized that when not allowed to speak of politics or feelings, he has little to work with.

“I have a soft spot for writers,” she finally says, “I understand you wrote a book once.”

“I did. A noire, it sold less than a hundred copies.”

“Well maybe if you’d written it in Russian it would have had a better reception.”

“Maybe it was just a bloody mess of a book.”

“If I recall it was about a paramedic and a whore on the eve of the revolution was it not?”

“It had a bit more to it than that.”

“Well of course. To you. I read some.”

“So not your style.”

“No. Not really. A little too violent. A little too sentimental about the wrong things. Your poems are much better.”

“I’m flattered you took the time to read them.”

“You began sending me them four days after meeting me do you recall. Under some pretext of soliciting my technical opinions on airplanes.”

“I was sincerely curious about airplane terminology. I was also sincerely interested in attracting your attention more general.”

“And here we are.”

“So the book was not to your tastes and the poems were all splendid?”

“Some more than others, but I will say that you have a good handle on the English language. Although your spelling is ad hock and your grammar most irregular.”

 

Oleg Leonidovich Medved enters most gregariously.

He is well dressed in various black and gray tones and carries a close cut beard which does nothing to disguise the Ivoryish aspects of his Slavic complexion or the Slavic attributes of Eurasian manly disposition. He is a man twice the size or other men who prefers to break others with conversation not brawn, but can resort to that if needed. Sebastian stands to greet him, they are old friends and they embrace before either man can or will acknowledge either woman, for he goes nowhere alone and with him is the young modal Yulia Romanova, a brown haired slender beauty.

“The American Mayakovsky is much alive! I am glad you are not really as dead as the telescreens now claim. The Millennium, I am aghast at the recent carnage. I only hope with you and you wife officially “dead” the ceasefire holds. Tovarish poet paramedic, glad to see you again!”

“The same Comrade Oleg, the same!” responds Sebastian. And the two men embrace in a gruff but friendly, eastern European fashion.

“This is Yulia Romanova,” Oleg says and goes to embrace Adelina whom he has known for some number of years. In fact it was he who introduced the two of them last April on her birthday.

They all are then seated at the dinner men facing men and women facing women.

“A perilous journey ahead,” toasts Oleg as soon as drink has been put in his hand.

“Cheers,” says Adelina. What a silly British thing to say, to toast well; nothing.

“Is it true they aim to finally kill him in New York?” asks Oleg as if he despises all pretenses or suspense. Which he does.

“There is reason to believe that the revolution’s leadership has arrived at doubts as to Mr. Adon’s commitment to the values of the resistance. There are certain factions that want him put on trial and put to permanent death.”

“Well I say we skip New York, and all fly out directly to lovely Cataluña” interjects Yulia.

“Do you know this man so well you are vouching for his safety on public airlines,” asks Adelina to Yulia with vague scorn.

“No, I simply don’t like trials and don’t like New York now that it has gone communist,” replies Yulia Romanova, a self-proclaimed white Russian.

“I liked New York capitalist, I like it communist. The issue to me is who knows Sebastian is alive and why do they suspect him of treason to the revolution?” asks Oleg.

“Because of circumstances,” states Adelina and as she even says the same she squirms a little inside.

“Fuck Circumstances. Quite literally. I will of course vouch for Sebastian Adon and testify that what he did for that woman was nothing of his own choosing. If anything it spoke well to his dedication to lost woman, or to saving, or to art. But I was there when they met and am privy to the entirety of the tryst, and I know this man did not betray a thing. Except is own heart perhaps.”

“Thank you for that friend,” Sebastian says.

Ain Davar,” says Oleg in Hebrew having lived four years in Israel once, once when it was there.

“Let underlying facts be placed upon this table then,” states Adelina, “this man is most uncommon. Three years ago he became enamored with a Russian call girl. His relations with her led to the underlying causalities that triggered the mighty revolt. And then, to save her he signed a contract with the devil himself. And then souls left bodies, this man walked his way across time down a rabbit hole. And then became alive three years later. That in the revolt’s eleventh hour he and his wife could seize thousands of hostages and perish in a bloody sand off in Midtown Manhattan. And awake alive miraculously a third time in Shrakasa Waltham!

“His exile,” Adelina explains with a hint of banality.

“Ah, yes thank you both, and you too Ms. Yulia for delivering me out of this cold wretched place,” says Adon.

“It is nothing, droog as we are all fans of your work, and friends of the people and the wider goals of the glorious revolution,” smiles Alan Medvinsky, also called Oleg the Bear, who is paid in cash dollars, billing by the minute for his very tricky work.

He has worn many hats in other lives.

And thus begins our very rocky road running from Brooklyn Soviet to the satellite camps of outer Boston; to the City of Port-au-Prince, then to Santo Domingo and Havana; then Kingston and then Madeira, to the final invasion of Europe; then to Cataluña, then to Moscow burning our way across the great mountain fortress of pale Europe; to the remembering and also forgetting. And finally Burma. To all the places and possibilities beyond the narrow struggle to survive. But on that fateful cold winter day, we four never made it out of that dinner, telling stories to make it through the cold.

 

For before you try to storm the mountain, before you get to build upright human castles, battle white and black demons both and build your grand castell to victory; you must drill. For in the face of indomitable odds and opposition; zealous persistence and ineffable might are your truest weapons. You build your alliance, you ready your team;

 

You prepare for the day it is your time to join the Great Revolt.

FIRE, s.5

19912_rexfeatures-4025374a

Scene 5

Scene Five

Crown Heights

 

 

The room was jam-packed. People sitting on the floor, on the tables, people out in the hall. Many of the apartment blocks on Schenectady Ave have concrete inner court yards, have multiple means to get in and out without keys, lot of places to run and evade the police. The followers of the Menachem Mendel Schneerson and the Chabad Movement congregate near Kingston Avenue and the large Afro-Caribbean community stays more toward Utica; but for the most part the blacks and Jews live right on top of each other.

They for the most part ignore each other. With the exception of a bloody three day riot in 1991 this is virtually the only neighborhood where two completely different people’s share a ghetto.

But in the bunker basement here, not a white face in sight.

They are all pressing closer to hear the words of the man that so many people had been talking about. The basement of the apartment block fallout shelter has a maximum occupancy of a hundred and fifty people. Nearly three hundred had filtered in, a hundred more are waiting upstairs. Most people had just gotten off work, some neighborhood kids, boys off the block, had dropped by to see what all the commotion was about. They heard this man was “gonna tell it like it is and how it could be”. Lay it down for them in words they could understand. The neon lighting grid in the basement flickered its blinding light. Suddenly there was a hush. Three men dressed in black pushed forward through the mob. One of the men put his hand up in the hair, a call for silence. For some people in the ghetto there was religion, for others some little hustle, for a tiny talented tent make music or athletics for the whites. But lately for the struggling Jamaican and Haitian lower classes there were the words of Mickhi Dbrisk.

“You know what the trouble is these days?” he began.

“We work. We starve. We fight amongst ourselves. We embrace another civilizations God and we sing to hymns to white man on a cross. We work more, we hustle more, we get sucked into criminality, negativity and vice. They lock up one in 8 of our men, they break up our families and they use as their slaves. We always lose, and the white man never relinquishes his hold on the power structure. My name is Mickhi Brisk and I am here to tell you brothers and sisters not just how it is, but how it could be.”

Every voice died down to hear what he would go on to describe.

“The white man says we need schoolin’. But not a single one of our schools is well funded or intact. So we try go to college, but the majority of the colleges where actual opportunity is found are not open to us.”

“The white man says get jobs. So we try to get one. But most of the jobs we have to take are the jobs they don’t want, the only jobs open for us.”

“The white man says you ain’t a slave! That you can get some, equal opportunity, but as we all know. They on some shit. We are willingly patriating in a bondage system that get more work out of us than slavery did!”

“Now, I ain’t some redundant brother. Here me now. Do not. Do not I repeat blame the whites fo’ yo’ problems. The white man doesn’t want to hear it, can’t hear it, so it won’t do no good fo’ the community. Ya see, lots of brothas out there will tell you that blame needs to be cast everywhere but here.  They say “BUY BLACK”. They say “BECOME MUSLIM”. They tell you “BLACK LIVES MATTER.” Hell I say it to, our lives matter. But itz the language behind the diction that’s important.” The whites kill us in the streets. They humiliate us and strip our rights in the court rooms. They lock up whole generations and take away our votes. The time for resistance was before they took us out of Africa, but the solution is not confrontation and protest. We must focus on control of our own development and intuitions! Like out Jewish brothers and sisters right upstairs do.

 

The youth began to leave.

“Hold the fuck up,” said Mickhi Dbrisk.

“You wanna go play gangsta, you’ll end up in a coffin. You wanna be a man. Hold the fuck up. Let’s drop this criminal shit today and we’ll teach you how to find with mathematics, with science with economics and with strategy.”

 

A few people, mostly young hoods walk out, but the masses were becoming enthralled.

 

“I come before you with a simple message. We as a community have suffered the injustice of being begotten by slaves into a modified slavery. We can’t hold onto that, but we must not ever forget it. We, the descendants of black African people are no better or worse than the white people. Bear in mind, when I say white people, I’m not talking color of skin. I mean the establishment. The man. There are many types of people and situations and circumstances dictate the state of current affairs. But learn to think about class not just race. So many out there will fight and die for their race or their religion. What I say is fuck your race? White people are slaves too. Yellow people, Brown people, Muslims and even the Jews are all bound slaves on in this world system. We need allies for our liberation, but do not hear my words and think we plan to start a plantation razing race war.”

 

There is a pause. Every eye is on him now.

 

“Never forget what our system does to maintain itself,” he began again.

“Never forget that as an American, black, white, and yellow you all on that slave ship and our goal is our won ship not burn the ship and drown together. What oppresses one man oppresses everyman, here and abroad. Our chains are not of lead but of the illusion of gold we are promised every day. It’s said in America that history has been a progression towards ever-greater freedom for humanity. “Name a better society than this one” is a common statement made to anyone who criticizes the system of modernity. But if no better system than this one has ever existed does that automatically recommend the status quo? What if, on a scale of 1 to 10, with most countries in the world currently scoring a 4, modern America is a 6 for its whites and a 3 for everyone else? What if humanity started out as driven slaves with a whip-master behind them; progressed to a stage in which they were only driven but not whipped, then to a stage in which they could stand enchained on their own? What if modern society is only one in which we all wear really shiny chains? Should we be satisfied with this state of existence? Is This Just The Way It Is? I cry bull shit!” He pauses. “I am here to say, Let’s get free together.”

If anyone had the audacity to speak up now it was young Tina Shabazz.

“So you talk a big game Mickhi, but what do we do?”

She was standing now, her trim and beautiful Nubian frame sliding out of her seat and pushing to the front of the crowd.

“We stand up and we dig deep inside ourselves and community, we marshal our resources and we prepare for autonomy, ghetto by ghetto,” he quickly retorted.

“Like my grandpa did?”

She would often claim Malcolm was her grandpa. Anyone who knew her knew she didn’t even know her father’s name let alone her grandpas’. In the hood she was treated like a crazy artistic teenager.

“Tina. Tina. Tina. Always rabble rousing, but never achieving nothing for the community.”

“What fucking community Mickhi? Harlem’s now half white, in five to ten years Bed Stuy will be too.”

“Not if we unite and resist,” he replies

“You would burn down a brothers’ home before you let the white folks get it, is that it? That we must fight? You is on some shit. The only thing brothas wanna fight fo’ is loseies and the next big score. How you gonna rally um them? How you gonna wake up all the good striving Christians and Separatist Muslims? What does Uhuru and your Jew allies have to offer that don’t get more young people killed like that last time we got up?”

“It’s this very attitude sister that keeps us all oppressed. Disunity and prejudices. Artificial divisions.”

“Way to be optimistic brother. It isn’t THE MAN that keeps us oppressed, we do a good enough job oppressing ourselves. You used to be Crip, you know the cycle.”

“Have you missed every word I just said?”

“I heard you loud and fuckin’ clear Dbrisk. “RARARA. Uhuru Movement! All power to the people!” the same horseshit grandpa shouted.”

“As you will be Tina. As you will be.”

She knew he wouldn’t argue with her long. After all, it was all a front. Dbrisk and Tina Shabazz were in the same squad; the community just didn’t know it yet.

“We have room for good Christians, we have room for Bloods and Crips, and we have room for strivers, bourgeoisie niggas and room for Muslims. We have a ten point program that will be familiar to everyone. We have clinics, schools and training camps. I am here tonight to invite everyone to enlist in the Uhuru Movement. As you may have heard on the wire there’s gonna be a show of force at the parade. We will keep everyone updated on the Fire Station, the underground press and via liaison officers.

 

“They are killing us man by man and isolating us in these ghettos to exploit us. If you can fight you fight, if you gotta run you run. This uprising is not black against white, we have allies among the whites, the Muslims, the Jews and even the Irish,” he tells them.

“You go back to your churches and school and places of work, the snitches in the room can pass this on to the cops; we are fighting for democratic Confederalism and autonomy and human rights. If you ain’t running’ wit it run from it.”

 

“Well nigga, how do me an’ my squad get in,” asks a tough young thug on the wall?” who one his government papers was written down as Joshua Hunter.

 

“Well, you’ve got your gangster slouch down, now it’s time to master the revolutionary swagger.”

 

#116 The Sale of Sex and Violence

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#116 The Sale of Sex and Violence, dose dependent to Americans

Still, lying tits or ass up, I’m dying inside. She did confide.
When I’m sleeping, salvations ever a creeping, I die with each ride.
Go fantastic for us daddy!
My tears are water seaping.
Pleasure your senses by living a woman like me again!
You just attacked a country contributing less than 4 to 40 men.
This is about if, not when.

Bandit you, Chechen me!
DOES it even matter anymore once we get committed to Afrin? Committed to die to get free? In theory. Make me a long boring history.
I lick your inner legs. You will balance your torture noose on beer kegs.
On evil, vile airstrikes. On last stands.
All of this got promised, so all of this can be our promised land!!!
Chechen her, Chechen me!
Grim story broads near edgy.
My epilogue, my end can run us hedgy.
Kiss me a Chuvash kiss. A red head delightful, a dismiss of the next world’s bliss.
Can you stand being ridden?
Deep fucked feelings not factored, much less hidden?
A shooter in my lips will fix the next act,
Comendly,
Begin finding the exit condescendely.
I suck the air out your lungs. I drain your pockets open endplay.

I can degrade the cadence from Soviet, to Afro-Caribbean, for him.
Pure Afro-Pop; we can wine a bumper,
We can wine a story,
Wine a country!
Misbehavior don’t stop.
Pause!! Are you some cheta! DO not your tribes have strong laws?
I had my hands cut off to please you,
I hurt you worst when I stoked your Cold War fears,
Over smoked herring and Baltika beers.
I stole out your Russia heartless heart so you had no choice but to tear me apart.
I’m no evil doer! Beware. I know you die your crimson hair.
The heart was a long shot, not there.
A jump start!
Things with me fall apart.
My handcuffs are tight now, they seemed to hold me only so far; the death sentence we wrote for our love was time sensitive, for a start.
I raced in Honda Civic certitude, a white car goes far.
You set the bar at neutral!
Blare out six battalions of Kettle Drum stallions.
Put my music on her hard body, beat myself into a possible new life!
You put your sex upon her, but not with any knife.
The Vodka! Made the fucking a play back blur. He tied her up.
Coffee cup, up.
I filled her plate, I filled her cup.
I didn’t do this for mere “fun”, or cheap sex thrills.
I knew the girl had lots of child based bills.
Don’t cry out. Don’t throw up.
I did some noble things I swear it!
I took big risks, I dare it.
You ran your fingers with love through my hair.
I’m in Syria now, but I wish I was Nizhny there.
Don’t sex up a self-murder.
Don’t play down a version of me,
I’m not the door key, I’m not forcible re-entry.
You changed out my eyeballs, so I could properly see.
Clearly had visions without me.
Now you’re back.
At least in words.
I’m dancing in circles with boat loads of Kurds.
Now you’re back, dancing on me.

And the radio playing resolute, Vodka flows freely.
I rebel blush.
I Rebel salute.
I can see that the songs on repeat, back bone flute.
I feel nearly complete, wrapped in your bed sheet.
Cheap perfume, not yet dead from defeat.
And here goes another Chechen song again,.
You hate the sight of me a second time? Until when?
Again, and again and again.
Do you now hate me then?
Good night moon lovers, not if but or when.
I’m dead under all these fake love covers.
How now? Mice are never made into men.

The Chechnyans

300px-Ceklilər_Cek_kəndində,_1880_(kişilər)-Yermakov_Dmitriy_Ivanovich

The Chechnyans

A patriotic play by Adler S Walt

Cast

FEMALE ACTORs CAN PLAY:

  1. Maria Selverrtova of Moscow, a MOSCOVITE CHECHEN
  2. Polina Casperova Mazaeva, a war wife and a CHUVASH
  3. Anya Rumi Baghdadi, a CHECHEN
  4. Sandra Santiestiban, A Cuban Chechen
  5. Ana Campbell, a Chechen Martyr
  6. Chantal, a St. Martín Americano CHECHNYAN

 

MALE ACTORS CAN PLAY:

  1. Ayar of Kirkuk, a Kurdish CHECHEN
  2. Blacksmith Winter ‘Kawa Zivistan’, ‘Zacharias Abu Yazan’, Mikhail a CHECHEN
  3. Dan Newey, a British Jew guerilla
  4. Spirit of War, a Georgian guerilla.
  5. Abdul Rahman, Piling, a French African guerilla
  6. Peter Reed, a marine Chechen

 

 

 

Opening credits

 

 

Setting-My heart is on my bloody soaked sleeve.

 

Reads Maria:

 

The purpose of this play is to buy and sell luxury carrots. Also a flying carpet to get you home after all the bulllshit we will make you sit through telling tales. Also to warn you about Chechnyans, and also to distribute out a phone number where slaves with abused lives can get J 1, S 1 or go to college. There is singing and poems. We will try and pour you things called Vodka, but it’s not vodka; to us it’s like water for wound care.

Men went to war and women went to war, and Americans and Russians watched out the corner of the Newspaper or telescreen.

The papers called them “the Chechnyans” because when the war kept going, people came back trained in god-only-knows how much carnage capability. The war I’m referring to is the Syrian Civil War/ the Revolution in Rojava which was a phantom menace to all. But it was more a dark dream based on improbable odds. Chechens, are in fact a very real jihadist menace that fought us to the last bullet in Mosul, Raqqa and Deir A Zore. They brought their whole families into the Jihad. These remoniquored “Chechnyans” weren’t like them. They were secular and young, and mostly on the Kurdish or Shia side, or the Pesh Merga. They all left our families at home. There were plenty of war path teams and factions, mine/ ours was the most moral, but lived in a state of total delusion. They were following a pudgy faced aging man in Turkish solitary confinement. We thought breaking rocks was a useful form of soliloquy.

 

Reads Mikhail Zacharias:

 

I kissed very hard against her better judgment.  I saw her un make unpacked, un-made-up Slavic beauty face on her birthday, before we did one last job on St. Pat’s day. We weren’t supposed to do jobs like that in Midtown, people get upset.

I pulled her through to my reality, for the last time and she was completely pissed. The reality wasn’t very nice because it wasn’t the American dream she had set out to conquer on someone else’s name. That name and those papers had failed her mightily.  I yanked her through to the other side. The serf side, the Warsaw ghetto side. I was still just a petty gun slinger, Syrian Civil War vet on the run from the war in Syria and my own mind. I did 80 days in Bellevue City hospital and filth was still on my fingers, elbows and toes. I hadn’t slept well even one night.

She was still just a high end whore a year later? Not fair but probably true. But she wasn’t like Maria from Moscow anymore, doing what she did and still does with her tits and high ball shots and take home party favors. She was way over long walks with artists. She was regressing into Capitalist Modernity, the place she’d always wanted to end up, was now boring. Her suitors never waned. Especially the pesky Brahman roommate.

 

My name was once Mikhail, I was 34 but look younger. Her name is Dasha, but this isn’t about her. The other books were all about her. This is about the time a Syrian war vet caught feelings about Maria Silvertova, a buxom little Chechnyan, like him.

It has been a long road from Havana to Brooklyn to Russia, into the Middle East and back. With stopovers in where civilization has come to a resolute end in the Fertile Crescent. Burning down river by river shore to deep sands of desolation.

 

This is a cry for some helping hands, some Hamsas, that survived to talk about the Syrian Civil War. This is a love song after a hard fuck in Spanish. This is a Post-Soviet Lullaby, written in Imperial English.

#71  Dream Big for me One Night in Tehran

The Chechnyans

A play by Adler S Walt

To Polina Mazaeva

Walter S Adler

Poetic Score

 

#71  Dream Big for me One Night in Tehran

In the dead still of night we departed toward our naked selves.

I should sleep, put myself in Seraquiled storage, like tomes to old flames on never dusty book shelves.

I should sleep but I persist in composition;

I assume my position, which is two stoags worth of turmoil,

A hard vodka shot of past lives living and a bounding whif, of if.

 

Your sweet smile Polina! Is lyrical. A bountiful gift.

To sift through my mind is to tinker with a land mine.

SO, I hold my hope inside, and wait until the sun comes up.

There wait for us Chuvashan flying carpets. There are castles and mountains with Jedi socialists, in strange exotic lands too dangerous for us to bring your son.

Despite what the locals say, its war every day.

But, Polina, I saw your eyes, wink at me through each fire fight.

The wink was cute, the love was right.

Shudder-shutter, glasp of glimmers,

We are resolute as bath house swimmers.

As if those castles and those mountains were surpassible, on;y but for a few minutes only but for tragic seconds of second guessed life!

I wish for investment.

Of your hopes into my blood fuel.

Petrol poured off your pouty lips, making a full scale assault on the Gods of HARD PROMISE.

Gods dictating our fortunes called oligarchs.

A pittance of hate in their direction. My carpet flies fast, so does yours Red Fox.

Past holocaust, past small pocks. A passion play for if I can see your smile again, your think and your wink. I can break more rocks.

Too soon,

The new moon swoon, a red, white and blue airship balloon.

Too soon is no measure of time,

Too late is sadly just that. And I fear the rhyme this time is behind clock.

A charge to an aftershock,

DEAREST RED FOX, for all things we say between our words is the delight of your smile you cannot fake for anyone.

A vast and disparate wait for the men at the racing courtship gate.

For the food on your son’s plate, for your plate, the waiting grows frustrate.

For the zeal and the pistol and honing of self-hate.

Self-hate for the losing of you. Like a shoe string tournequitte, half of most of my stories are just plane true.

Darling ZHDAT (wait) !

Always looking at all things backwards is the herding of cats.

SHE SAYS, “TEMPER YOURSELF!”

Let unseen energies move you to happy. Move you to free. Less wanting these impossible things, can’t you see.

She, you, true little Yazan, we. Look at me no longer with hopeful bright eyed hopeful parents in-law, the things that we saw.

And now as music cascades across social media over the breaking back of our new marching seasons, side walk cracks left this mess a draw.

You see fires of optimism in small places where transfixed in revolutionary ecstasy I courted dissidents and stitched grievance wounds, with a pen and a claw.

Another tirade against Capitalism, again? With under 40 men?

And without disdain or interruption you removed the bloody bandages off my dystopian idealisms wounds,

And my past lives, my worst jives, my best strives.

Pock marks of bullets cut into me. The barricade was held deep.

The great escape of the land we hold and the secrets we don’t keep.

Pock mark lives, cuts with one million Shiite self-hit knives.

I am no mere Chechen gunslinger, a wretched old me.

Cut of ALI!

But reduced to a student when you’re looking over me.

And AS WE PAINT, pall mall, a color insurrection I try and structure the countenance of your slim and happy soul, the whole of the part, if not the entire whole.

Lips and pale breasts wrapped in the Haitian flag.

The blow back of cocaine never took even a first drag.

Not classically trained, my own palm Blanchard and drowned out by the music of stars.

I also drive fast cars.

Many many more nights, many more hopefully not of of our worst hysterical fights. Many nights await the coming plane and train flights. The magic of stars.

The fog of war tucked me away into pitful coma; then prison bars. Deep familial fighting scars.

I persist in loving you, the nears and the fars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Chechnyans 1

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Endless Walk/

The Chechnyans

A patriotic plays by Adler S Walt

And Polina Mazaeva

Thankfully matured by editors and friends Daniella, Anya, Maria, and Justine.

Cast

Anya of Baghdad, a CHECHEN

Ayar of Kirkuk, a Kurdish CHECHEN

Blacksmith Winter ‘Kawa Zivistan’, ‘Zacharias Abu Yazan’, a CHECHEN

Maria of Moscow, a MOSCOVITE CHECHEN

Polina Mazaeva, a war wife and a CHUVASH

Spirit of War, a Georgian guerilla.

Chantal, a St. Martín Americano CHECHNYAN

 

Opening credits

 

 

Setting-My heart is on my bloody soaked sleeve.

 

Reads Vasyli:

 

The papers called us “the Chechnyans” because when the war kept going, people came back trained in god-only-knows how much carnage capability. The war I’m referring to is the Syrian Civil War/ the Revolution in Rojava which was a phantom menace to all. But it was more a dark dream based on improbable odds. Chechens, are in fact a very real jihadist menace that fought us to the last bullet in Mosul, Raqqa and Deir A Zore. They brought their whole families into the Jihad. We weren’t like them. We were secular and young, and mostly on the Kurdish or Shia side, or the Pesh Merga. We all left our families at home. There were plenty of war path teams and factions, mine/ ours was the most moral, but lived in a state of total delusion. We were following a pudgy faced aging man in Turkish solitary confinement. We thought breaking rocks was a useful form of soliloquy.

I kissed very hard against her better judgment.  I saw her un make unpacked, un-made-up Slavic beauty face on her birthday, before we did one last job on St. Pat’s day. We weren’t supposed to do jobs like that in Midtown, people get upset.

I pulled her through to my reality, for the last time and she was completely pissed. The reality wasn’t very nice because it wasn’t the American dream she had set out to conquer on someone else’s name. That name and those papers had failed her mightily.  I yanked her through to the other side. The serf side, the Warsaw ghetto side. I was still just a petty gun slinger, Syrian Civil War vet on the run from the war in Syria and my own mind. I did 80 days in Bellevue City hospital and filth was still on my fingers, elbows and toes. I hadn’t slept well even one night.

She was still just a high end whore a year later? Not fair but probably true. But she wasn’t like Maria from Moscow anymore, doing what she did and still does with her tits and high ball shots and take home party favors. She was way over long walks with artists. She was regressing into Capitalist Modernity, the place she’d always wanted to end up, was now boring. Her suitors never waned. Especially the pesky Brahman roommate.

 

My name was Vasyli, I was 34 but look younger. Her name is Dasha, but this isn’t about her. The other books were all about her. This is about the time a Syrian war vet caught feelings about Maria Silvertova, a buxom little Chechnyan, like him.

It has been a long road from Havana to Brooklyn and back. With stopovers in where civilization has come to a resolute end in the Fertile Crescent. Burning down river by river shore to deep sands of desolation.

#71 Dream Big, for one more night in Tehran

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#71  Dream Big for me One Night in Tehran

In the dead still of night we departed toward our naked selves.

I should sleep, put myself in Seraquiled storage, like tomes to old flames on never dusty book shelves.

I should sleep but I persist in composition;

I assume my position, which is two stoags worth of turmoil,

A hard vodka shot of past lives living and a bounding whif, of if.

 

Your sweet smile Polina! Is lyrical. A bountiful gift.

To sift through my mind is to tinker with a land mine.

SO, I hold my hope inside, and wait until the sun comes up.

There wait for us Chuvashan flying carpets. There are castles and mountains with Jedi socialists, in strange exotic lands too dangerous for us to bring your son.

Despite what the locals say, its war every day.

But, Polina, I saw your eyes, wink at me through each fire fight.

The wink was cute, the love was right.

Shudder-shutter, glasp of glimmers,

We are resolute as bath house swimmers.

As if those castles and those mountains were surpassible, on;y but for a few minutes only but for tragic seconds of second guessed life!

I wish for investment.

Of your hopes into my blood fuel.

Petrol poured off your pouty lips, making a full scale assault on the Gods of HARD PROMISE.

Gods dictating our fortunes called oligarchs.

A pittance of hate in their direction. My carpet flies fast, so does yours Red Fox.

Past holocaust, past small pocks. A passion play for if I can see your smile again, your think and your wink. I can break more rocks.

Too soon,

The new moon swoon, a red, white and blue airship balloon.

Too soon is no measure of time,

Too late is sadly just that. And I fear the rhyme this time is behind clock.

A charge to an aftershock,

DEAREST RED FOX, for all things we say between our words is the delight of your smile you cannot fake for anyone.

A vast and disparate wait for the men at the racing courtship gate.

For the food on your son’s plate, for your plate, the waiting grows frustrate.

For the zeal and the pistol and honing of self-hate.

Self-hate for the losing of you. Like a shoe string tournequitte, half of most of my stories are just plane true.

Darling ZHDAT (wait) !

Always looking at all things backwards is the herding of cats.

SHE SAYS, “TEMPER YOURSELF!”

Let unseen energies move you to happy. Move you to free. Less wanting these impossible things, can’t you see.

She, you, true little Yazan, we. Look at me no longer with hopeful bright eyed hopeful parents in-law, the things that we saw.

And now as music cascades across social media over the breaking back of our new marching seasons, side walk cracks left this mess a draw.

You see fires of optimism in small places where transfixed in revolutionary ecstasy I courted dissidents and stitched grievance wounds, with a pen and a claw.

Another tirade against Capitalism, again? With under 40 men?

And without disdain or interruption you removed the bloody bandages off my dystopian idealisms wounds,

And my past lives, my worst jives, my best strives.

Pock marks of bullets cut into me. The barricade was held deep.

The great escape of the land we hold and the secrets we don’t keep.

Pock mark lives, cuts with one million Shiite self-hit knives.

I am no mere Chechen gunslinger, a wretched old me.

Cut of ALI!

But reduced to a student when you’re looking over me.

And AS WE PAINT, pall mall, a color insurrection I try and structure the countenance of your slim and happy soul, the whole of the part, if not the entire whole.

Lips and pale breasts wrapped in the Haitian flag.

The blow back of cocaine never took even a first drag.

Not classically trained, my own palm Blanchard and drowned out by the music of stars.

I also drive fast cars.

Many many more nights, many more hopefully not of of our worst hysterical fights. Many nights await the coming plane and train flights. The magic of stars.

The fog of war tucked me away into pitful coma; then prison bars. Deep familial fighting scars.

I persist in loving you, the nears and the fars.