Adler’s punchdrunkery!
The Brazen, the uncouth way you talk!
You talk in their company as if no men or adult supervision heard; picture plays parkour of the ageist line division.
And the flush!
You ante up terror in ideas.
The flush of your young punch drunk; slight blush of a Charles River crossing, where the Amazon broached the Mississippi; and then nothing remained of we.
When the dinner parties are all over, you’re gonna start a war.
As if the lead and casket was just as comphy as chornay making us cotton.
And loving you for just wanting to steal things; drunk or play music as you were drunk for the past three hours, old, I brood. Yoga, yes yoga. Carlos Castaneda, I’ll read it.
“I love you baby, they’re killing my people.”
“Who are your people?”
She looks in my eyes and sees murder.
For me, one night in Tehran,
In the dead still night,
I should sleep.
But, I persist in composition.
I assume my position,
Which is to say two staogs worth of turmoil.
A hard shot of pastness.
And a bouncing whiff of if!
Your sweet smile is lyrical you know, you know.
A gift to me, too 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 is a flying carpet in my room.
There are castles out in Burma, there are mountains worth our climbing, I am tired of this capitalistic digging, my grave is deep enough I think, slaves before we left the womb.
There are strange exotic lands; an in your eyes I see shimmers of a future without martyrdom or doom!
As if those castles, those mountains were surpassible, via conspiracy.
As if those castles, we could live in them, but for a second I wonder on your investment; of hope of and fuel.
Do you want big dreams or American dreams?
American, it comes up in conversation. It seems.
Petrol poured into my lips I will make a full scale assault on the grim gods of our fathers, and finance, this romance my catalyst, but I am a pittance, my magic carpet carries me clear,
Sit on my face, a passion play a midnight.
For if I can see your smile! The very next day!
Too soon, you say.
Is not my measure of time dear little teacher endearing?
All things future and past, as still now to me.
All things future and present and past, a vast and disparate wait for the moon at the gate, for the food on one’s plate! For the zeal of the pistol and honing of hate.
“Darling, Zhdat (wait), always looking backwards is the basket of black cats.” She says temper yourself. Let unseen energies absorb you, court woo, and the past passes through!
She, twice she then you. Look; at me with bright eyed hopefulness, peacefulness that’s what we saw. I looked into that frail, pale Komarova; I saw goddess I saw power I saw awe.
What now?
As cascades over broken backs of marching season bear down on Boston’s rackets; side walk cracks, you see a fiery optimism in small places where transfixed;
I court dissidents.
With small talks and dinner parties.
Does she know I’m raising an army, and a family later?
Stitch back my wounds with her powers of healing; banners and tirades; against the elite, against the untouchable castes on top, against capital one.
But tonight, we have Havana Club and Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, it’s still charming time for exile, it’s still capable of being fun!
And without distain or interruption, you remove the blood bandages of my past lives, you remove my clothes and yours. Pock marks of bullets, the cut of a million passionate knives.
“They’re gonna kill you. That’s why we can’t ever be together for real,”
“You’re a gun slinging rebel, disguised as a student, but this is my life, I live here for keeps, I need this, I have friends here, I need a life I can see has a legitimate future, I’m human, I feel.”
Oh, gun slinger cut of Ali, but I’m reduced to student when you’re looking into me, looking at me, Elena Komarova I’m not planning on dying in Water Town, I’m here for the secrets, and now the idea of we.
And as we paint Pall Mall a colorful insurrection I try and sketch the how; the contours of your slim and happy soul. I see all its parts and I want them around me.
But, I fail to capture but for new lips, and usuality of drawing obscene huge breasts, I am unseeing in early art of the universal Komarova, the epic you. I fail.
I try again. I fail.
I spend some money.
I nearly burn the house down and your car is towed, true story.
I’m not classically trained at anything, except being a paramedic.
My own palm ought to be backhanding myself, strained and refrained from the lack of substance of my duck lips and tits, the things I can draw.
Madness. You always knew I had madness in the blood.
Many nights, I recount out best must useless fights.
Many nights, the blackness drowned out the magic of the stars.
The fog of war tucked me to bed into a light coma, seeing and feeling nothing; they build me layers of prison bars.
What is left of me for you to love is a happy corpse reanimated.
You gave me the possibility of life, but I squandered it with my duties to the resistance and my hate.
There was always still a little hope left.
(Tam Po, Prezhnemu nadeyyus chtovnoch)
What about counting stars seemed like a good idea? Until we found rest, I’ll count your smiles and well laid lines, excuse my right eyes glare; the lips and breasts.
Your Russian lullabies sustain me I’m bleeding you saved me I love you don’t leave me, there are some many things I repent,
Not time not days we spent, I am cut different in cock and cloth from the sea of other suitors, some calling themselves men.
Loyalnost fierce, I can’t derail, can’t let go. You know, so you tuck me in with silence, why do you fuck men with no hair, I’m trying, I’m failing, the story is over, I get it, I know.
I’d carry you again, if you’ll carry me, any load. I can take care of monsters, I can bring back some of the dead; if you came to Haiti for love, just know this is only the beginning of the rebellions road.
Feed me some hope.
I’ll dine with you again, one day. When the worst is over and it’s time for a little more fun, you and the Marine Pete Reed, the three of us were the first in the struggle to come, after the battles are over and castles are conquered.
I lost you, but the war well the war it has to be won.
And I’ll promise nothing with bald bastard near, for the earth and the sky are venues for my unwritten stories, battles we lost but better the stories of battles because you we won;
No more swords!
She declares unless you’re fighting for me, not fighting for me you’re fight to get free just warm me with that fire and I’ll open your eyes to the world right here, pleasing us both with the possibilities of beautiful things we can make and also to be.
Touch the ground.
Breathe the air,
Speak not a word off your communist lips,
Or my body and softness,
Folds of my cerebellum, reacting to the caress of your hand on my hips, and my hair.
Fall red leaves will tumble as I mount the soap box in Cambridge.
We will create!
“Let some of the things you’re creating with me, absolve of your aloneness, your impossible war, and maybe even some of your hate!”
Look at me each night.
“I’m dead, not dying, you know what those devils took!”
She replies, “In the real, or your head?”
Look at me each night, it kills me, kiss my cheeks, and I will carry your hopes into life. And if nothing is promised, but promises on the pages of the paper they are printed.
And if nothing is promised that fails delivery.
If not one trespass occurs, then I will pour you a glass of cold hope, she says. You will be my favorite character if I can earn more nights, more time.
My face cracked twenty times at least against the bathroom mirror of the empire hotel, the night in November she left me.
“If you’d like in year, we can revisit this.”
“I’m gone.”
“I’ll do anything.”
If you’d like to wait a year in old soul time and find me in another life? There are carpets to Tehran that leave at dawn and you could leave him and come with me, to anywhere.
The wild is rapture, the sky is glee. And we were born free, or less than not free loyal and happy and humble live we;
When you look at the sky, smile, I’m looking at you and you’re looking at me.
WALTER SEBASTIAN ADLER 