She says:




One old soul Cold Night,

It was pouring again on her low rise,

High risk hell by the sea shore.

I’ve always said that the waters will wash the rats away,

But not the deeds-done by all in middle passage.

She says we will be ok, one day.

I’ve never been a killer.

She’s never been a whore.

The sky broke open like a shotgun burst in Grozny at close quarters to the knee cap:

An ambush, oh well.

Who keeps score?

It all came down in a freezing deluge,

Dripping like a sweat soaked sheet after a good ravishing tear about of a violent fuck.

The kind that breaks bed stands best reserved for last stands.

Cue thunder bolt Bang!

In a sky-break-the-jaw free for all with no sign of stoppping:

Good luck, better duck.

Soon you’re back in Eastern hands.


All torn asunder_ and brakish above.


She says:


“Real Men don’t waste their weakness via their liquid.

In the company_

_Of those they are claiming to love.”


-Good Night Moon! –


I drank too much Astika,

Now I’m wasting my blood, sweat and tears!

No fuss. Really_ No fuss.


We’ll get back to heaven soon.



Then lately the gods_

Are beating the shit out of us.


Looking up out the train at the sky falling out_


On the pock-marked-Plexiglas windows_

Looks as though I could get out and swim.


I say:

Dorogaia, I’ll go home when I get you home_ from the City right back to him.”


Take warning!

Or should I say Good-Gracious to the latest early morning,

Escapade_ this train is my casket,

An empty bed is but some temporary grave with sheets.

A wasted youth on some lonely barricade.

-“Who offered you redemption?”

– “Who asked it?”

Good warning.

She doesn’t give them now.

I fear nothing_  Not even total destruction!

Re-execution_ the wrath I daily incur,

I’m just an arrogant devil, who’s stealing an angel from hell_

_Defying the last thread of reason:

Commandment Ten too so it seems

To make some destination with her.


And then she says in her pre-Brooklyn post-Soviet Cyrillic:


Her eyes switch blade sleep deprived to silver,

From blue.

“Awake–on-the-Q-again-my-devil- tovarish_ Boxing-the-demons in-you.”

If you play you play to win.

Night train to Brighton.

With-Vodka-in-our-vessels and pumps.


Rationale swallowing,

Morals repressing

I’m no longer giggling.

Or humoring your rough handed caressing,

Dripping wax after gradual tantric undressing.

Your attempts at beseeching

My former soviet teaching,

It comes out like preaching sometimes.

Break the siege!

We’re clawing with word.

I’m an occupied country.

You’re re-opening wounds,

I’m your devastation_.

Fuck what you know about me as some angel,

And forgive me at least half that you heard.


She said “Man go home.” (Sung)


Again I implode.

And thus flew by the Beverly Road.


She thinks:



I can beat him with my eyes.

More fun than bawled fists or a knife.

Sometimes I tell bright, white, victorious lies!

About various financial or legalous men in my life,

He doesn’t know Nothing!

But “former soviet” pillow talk.

I say: “You call me Bright Eyes!”

Why fly off the handle at first or last tries?

Why even run_ when first you must master the walk.


Bright Eyed Angel_

Take back the blood you bled.

I’ve wounded, you stabbed, but you’re Russian

You’re taking your time!

This place is far beyond heaven though laid out like hell,

Are we alive or are we just the working-half-dead?


I’m on borrowed clock:

Face punched bloody, long overdue.

Remember September when we almost died?

What if we did?

– “What’s it to you?”

– “What’s love when you’re already dead?”

Eternity is just the name_ Of a long waiting game.

If I ride this train too long_

I will never beat the dawn rise to that place I keep my bed.

You’ll draw further attention

To the contradictions in my head.

So speak of morals,

And logic,

And devotion, and never of my latest-wild-plan!


She says:  


“Do you know how far you’ll have to go to steal me from this man?”


To kiss is so easy.

But to take me with you is dire.

Don’t you know_ we have no place to go_

And my kisses seem to set your fragile devil heart on fire.


She says: 


“Man go home!” (Sung)


And there just went Cortelyou. Everything she says is mostly true.


I say:


“I’ve got no home except when I’m with you.” (Sung).


She reviews the balance sheet:


I-cannot-discern_ your-truth from-your-lies,

Romantic –propositions-are-getting-bound-in-reckless-adventures,

Picnics on steeplechase beaches,

Epic half tries!

Defiance in the face of my torturous lies!

Your life: Pledged fearlessly_ naively to mine!

Our hand cuffed, bloody hands bound together at the foot of the Partisan shrine,

I asked for seduction;

You’ve brought complication and pain.

What the blat happened on the roof in September:


There’s no reason to think we have something to learn_ or to gain!

There’s a contract, but there is no obligation.

There are no witnesses to what I call proof.

I could have killed me and you could have killed you,

And we both would have died for not a damn thing!

And then you went and took on all those cops on your roof!

  • “You put on masks!”
  • “I was born with the face I wear now.”

No more last tries!

I’m nothing like former Soviet women!

I still have my feelings intact.

You have only your bloody ideals and a cause:

So you’re certainly not like other eligible American guys.


She says man:


“It’s all mostly true.”


I sing “I have no home, except when I’m with you.” (Sung_)



That has kept us up and awake since the first blue moon in September:

I said to you_ won’t you run away with me_

And we’ll see if your husband will even remember.


She slaps my face with her eyes.

She says:

“I don’t take this kind of bullshit_

From much more gracious and generous guys.”


         She says: “Man go home!”


I’ve survived for this long in this country of yours,

I came here with nothing but blonde hair and dreams,

What do you know of my man who keeps me on this coast?

Who feeds me_ and clothes me_ and says that he loves me,

I will go home to his arms and you know what I’ll do

I’ll do it until he screams.”



Find your way back home!”



I said what do you know of me?

She says I know you’re weak because

You grew up much higher up on the hill of life,

You grew up privileged in this City.

“Does it hurt the hear that? Does it scar?”

“I know that you should be much stronger than the peasant that you are!”

Now find your way back home.

I retreat

No heartbeat.

An epic defeat.

And the failure of deeds to woe her-to love her-to see her again.

I know she’s away from this husband every night of the week,

Running and hiding and dancing,

Mostly in the arms of other men.


“Don’t you even look at me that way”, she says.

“Don’t you look at me again!’”

Man find your way back home.


You kiss me each time like you’re going off to war!

You talk like a poet,

But don’t you understand yet,

Words are useless to me_ and anyone else who has ever been poor.

Listen, MAN I’m doing this because it’s true.

I can’t go home to Penza,

I can’t feed myself on poems.

And I can never be,

In epic love with you!



The Q train rumbles toward the coast,

Brighton Beach arrival!

It’s like I’ve died before,

And this hell is mine alone,

Russian roulette with a ghost.

She says:

Keep to the contract,

We wrote it ourselves,

You know the rules man,

Do what you should.

If you love me and kiss me and steal me away,

You’re breaking the tenth rule:

And as your muse and tovarish;

_We cannot allow our evil to triumph over our good.


“I will always love you.”

“You’ve said that to other women before.”

“I wish there was a way to go back and undo,”

She says, “At least when the storm ends you’ll be back in your bed,

And the roof was a dream and I didn’t kill me, and I didn’t kill you.”


“What was this even for?”


I walk her brisk umbella’ed down Banner Ave as the rain cracks down,

I bring her Q train to bombed out lobby door.


And this nation erupts in on itself white and blue.

“You could learn to be as good in deeds, as you are in speech”, she says departing.

I said “I hope there’s a will for that way.”

She says “I’m doing this for mostly for you.”


The rain beats my brow.

Exit the hazel haired devil,

Angel’s got wild gold locks on fire as she looks back at the torrent from the door.

Our flirtation has been on fire from the start.

And now, I show signs of first submission,

And the storm smolders my position.

As I can no longer tell heaven from hell or

An angel or devil apart.



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