A play by Adler S Walt
To Polina Mazaeva
#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.
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.