#808: Fearless_Hopeless_Hearts

 

“Tell me story time!”

She curls up on me her ethanol engine exhausted.

I want to fly us_so far away:

This cab is now a magic carpet for a story cabaret.

Using-a-punchdrunk-kitten in the back seat of a Breuklyn-southbound-gypsy as my muse. One doesn’t choose,

_the muse they use. Or when.

There were worse assignments.

Given to more cowardly men!

And my constitution is and always will be_a wide canvas for futurist painting_

My-heart-when-fainting_

Is grinding, then breaking it_causes Brighton to flood and post Haitian earthshaking:

My soul is for barter_sign the dotted line,

I’m a phantasm now-shaking collapsing-and up for the tainting.

Exsanguination! Being bled dry!

There’s blood in my eye,

A mind game, that’s fine, but the mind can unravel before the right time, and the things it envisions; the things you complete; like a thousand lifetimes emptying out of your whispers_

_Like two shots in the dark_unloading my heart on the cold of the street!

 

Vasa, she whispers:

“Why so sad all the time?_Tell me a story  with Camels and Bandits and rhyme!- and keys strung to kites_ mix your bi-winning antics and Arabian nights! Make more epic poems! Can-we-not-agree_the audience cannot swallow_ an endless account, as you wallow in all of your feelings for me.”

 

 

Starry night burns bright, I begin again:

I have the will!

In a previous life she believed mostly in kill-or-be-killed.

She comes from place_ So brutal, so base, frustrated, consumed by the men in her face,

The following ointments, which vodka let boil to a brine of pure hate_

_juxtaposed with the partisan flame of my zeal,

I’ve been reborn in a futurist gate.

_And invested with powers to steal or to heal!

Absorb all of your pain_ and restore your ideals!

And you will open my chest with your fingers: And start spinning the wheels_

It’s Russian roulette, the way that she feels!

Magic carpets to carry us so far from this place where we are_Highspeed races and chases_

_ Drive bys taking place without use of a car!

Her kiss is the bullet of deadly surrender.

The sweetness of service she’s willing to render_greatest by far:

To enroute replace my pumping mechanism, without medical training_without even leaving the hint-of-a-scar!

A pipe dream_a pipe bomb_ a zen.

Near endless composition, the art of storytelling unleashed from my phone or my pen_

In base thirst for a woman I’ve known in other lives.

And desire to keep knowing forever_

_If forever could just be again, and again.

I am trained to fix a broken heart, my own excluded!

For the heart is a time bomb_ your emotions are fire ball bearings_

_Your wiring is now made faulty,

Your rational mind is at times misguided-deluded…

• “Vasili, please, I’m lying here counting on your story to ease, I want erotic adventure, daring or fun, no more talk of feelings or the latest bombastic-head-fuck-with-a-gun, I like allegory, the-cave-with-the-thieves? What’s the name of that story?! No more tales of the mechanical heart, right before bed!”
• “I’ll tell you my dreams about star crossed Chechen peasants instead”.

 

II.

 

How can I, live so many lives; but be without you so many nights?

Cold sweats. And the ache of separation, imprisonment and then exile:

Broken bottles or spears or my pen’s wronging rights,

Sweat itself often passes as tears.

While writing my politics off as mere hooligan fist fights?

I didn’t mean to trouble you with me, But! We seem unable to end it quickly,

Or end me quietly.

I have been hunted like a partisan and I found refuge in your secret kisses.

Now we are partisans together I suppose, but you warned me you prefer the cities to the forests. The Peony to the Rose.

What about Peony verses Prose?

I prefer bath houses to General Winter_and the wearing of my solitude below four layers of my clothes.

So how now?

Where will we find shelter?

We’ve run helter-skelter on the glass-bottle-broken-beaches or that Bulgar tavern where we hide.

            They have done so many things to me,

Until now I cannot recognize my own face.

I listen it seems, but prefer to confide.

But it is just the face of a man claiming love!

Cupid’s arrows mutilate.

The barrage burns apart my barricades like katusha rockets, raining from above.

Don’t fail me fearless heart,

Ill get back to you!

From Shali, the mountains, Brighton or Grozny too!

With black eyes, black ties, last tries; this is no mere seduction, or simple desire:

 It’s a visceral longing to woe. 

Putin has declared war! But foolishly I long for just peace on this front line fight_

_A lull in the violence allowing me to steal my way back to you_guided by moon and my tragic-parachute-knock around-dagger man-incite.

The barricade-we-made was cobbled together with useless albiet pretty word;

Damn all my grandiose promises,

The misuse and abuse of fables and myth that confuse what I see with that which you claim that you heard.

I am almost quite old.

In old soul time.

I bought what you sold. Dash my face against Dagestan’s rocks, break all my bones if in this life I am more coward_more villain than hero and bold…

 

“Silly Vasa,” she giggles, pulling her supple  body supine even closer to closeness of mine, “Your passions on fire when you press your fingers to prose,_I’m drawing a line_ press your fingers to hold, I want Ambulance Action Peony ambush_No thorns of the Rose, and my grand design for the story this time is to hear about the dark in your soul, the black rabbit hole where your ambulance goes!”

 

 

III.

 

A Poet paramedic: warm body, heart now made stone cold. I have the will, I carried bodies in piles through Bed-Stuy,

Up moutains_we always will battle the Reaper uphill.

I never cried then, I did not even wince,

Every night I’m not dreaming of loving your company, kissing your lips_I’m flashing right back_senses under attack: to life tremors we trembled_in the City of Port-au-Prince!

We carried legions off to what passed as hospitals.

I’ve had to watch ten thousand die, now all I want is to carry you away from the coast of Brooklyn, magic carpet fly.

Fly in the face of your husband, your secrets;

The dance I do with my stories, in trains or in cabs, returning with you

To the place that you lie.

But I dance again from time to time. You bring it out of me.

“Why cry old soul?” She whispers.

“I saw things I wasn’t meant to see.”

“Women like me?”

“You’re a dangerous creature we both can agree.”

She gives me fourth and fifth tries, the body dies, but the song of the heart is timeless, therefore free.

 

IV.

 

Because when you are gone there are only words. Words make the basis of poems_ forming a plea from the deepest depths of my heart’s agony.

When each parting seems so long my mind invents monsters which lurk which are not even there!

In a silky, billowing dress_ I’d hide under your covers, I’d caress the folds of your being, run fingers through darkness through the locks of your hair.

• “Until I’m safe too?”
• “Like my fallen angel with her wings on gold fire; Dorogaia I need you.”

I pace the Brighton Boardwalk so long that all these lives mesh together ’til the story seems too wild, too Noire to be true;

• “Turn this cab toward the seaboard, turn Idlewild, let’s run away, before we break day_”
• “You haven’t a clue! Mad man! A poorly laid plan!”

Begging for some proof of goodness of his kind.

• “The validity of his mind!”

A million cold stones acquired over long tenuous adventures, but regrets are for traitors on rewind.

Battles and then conflicting accounts of my enemy’s treacheries abound.

An escape plan is successful only when the underlying logic is found!

The logic is half based on a whisper, and half on a dream.

Their scissor hands dripping from love of the kill. Demons enter the portal with intention to scheme. To make you their mark, or turn me to a skell or their shill.

They separated me from my humanity, loving you is against my rational will.

She’s half in the old world,

And half in the new,

Half iron curtain, half crystal glass shoe.

The cab nears the Verrazano precipice, the Brighton abyss where we will be separated anew.

Tell me Odysseus: What mean me to you?

Was that voyage anything but unjust for all involved?

Once I had a white motor cycle, I was a fugitive slave, I was evolved. I killed the master and stormed the plantation and then half of the problem was solved!

And on it you waited to escape north toward the blue moon.

• “Sooner than soon? Did your love for me grow after the rooftop fist fight in the light of my murderous swoon?”
• “Dorogaia that’s right.”
• “I don’t want such a life; a life of no humor, a life or death struggle, the terror of night.”
• “Stories for night, are about all of the wrongs swept away by the dawn and the light. I require one muse only. One significant. One longing. Never again in the trenches so vast, so empty and so lonely.”
• “The story of us? Us is a wild tragic roundabout fuss!”
• “Is_to_be_a_tale_of_triumph. Over the hopeless heart via the art of romantic prolonging!”
• “Righting or wronging?”
• “I sought out your company.”
• “Do it again.”
• “I do it still out of the longing.”

 

I have a voice and I have a loud pen!

And I have passion and it overflows my body until I see miracles in the streets.

The strength of forty men!

And the moon winks.

Then on Banner Ave. the story nightly completes.

And then again, the world’s smallest violin plays just for us, she thinks.

Why does such a long shadow fall over his house every time he drinks?

We are not star crossed.

We are not divided by a sea.

Or by barricades. Maybe we’re just in defiance of destiny.

Or the flaming up of the ghettos in the latest Caucasian raids.

When I looked to the sky I saw three ships sailing us apart.

You off to marriage and the world of the continent.

Me, bound forever to the belly of the ship enslaved only to my own fearless heart.

And as they sailed us apart, to never meet again,

Some sailors sang out, “The Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria!”

“To the glory of the new world!” they toasted.

Vain Braggarts and white men.

But I begged the moon:

“Dasha, Dasha, Dasha! Why can’t you love a wild peasant like me?”

What fate was this where we have to part our story time in endless tragedy?

Death itself could not stop this kind of beating in my chest.

If am reborn another thousand lives,

Each time waking from a long kiss good night,

Each life I will call out to you again as my test.

The body will die, but its sleep is the cousin of rest.

So, tied again to the mast.

Shackled and blinded I swagger on hopeless, fearless heart.

In dreams, don’t forget me.

This was begged long ago.

I will steal away and climb to the roof of Mt. Olympus if I must to give the gods a show.

I’ll ask for the help of the spirits if God has no time for us courtesans.

Wild peasant partisans, from good families with magic carpets and reckless bi-winning minds. The heart yearns, the back breaks, the soul is on fire, the real man, he grinds.

Black until blue.

Carrying me, one day, with wings home to you.

And if you read my verses see if I still appear a slave.

And we can say we knew each other when I was a free man and you were a free woman. I’ve traded my weapons of war for the power to save.

There is only one chain I cannot learn easily how to break.

And that, is the one I first broke to be by your side. By your side, give or take.

I long for you.

It will always be that way. It has been that way since Labor Day.

But then, story time is easy for an old soul with a pen.

• “You’re not like other men.”
• “Hopeless, Fearless Heart how long apart must I wait to stay gone?”
• “Vasa, I don’t know, forever. Or Until Dawn.”

# 88: INEFFABLE MIGHT!

 

 

1!

I have to get through tonight.

Through mid-trepadarious 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 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 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, daphnia 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 essense of you. (Adelina)

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

Its 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 Sharkasa Waltham; take me back to your arms; take the thick of me deeply and thrust away all this pain give me back my Adelina, give me back my release!

Release to your arms, then everythings 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 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 money poorly spent.

Click boots on black tarmac prospects covered in haggardly snows, my un 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 coksure 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 violent nemsis to any motherfucker who has done my woman epic wrong !

Moscow where is Moscow its a place inside my mind; it’s a fortress its a mountain citadel, its 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

Its 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 proxim 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 Tatiana;

I am red.

And you are white.

#81: The Screw tape

 

 

 

Lost in the screw tape meant to bind you!

Used to bind your half-caste hands.

We covet, oh how much we covet in just one day.

 

I like the idea of her long cream legs,

I like the sin.

I used just now entering her every.

Pause, I am no animal.

 

I have some morals, I have rationality;

A mountain of treason, I mean reason.

 

She, like Daria before, is spoken for.

And, with child.

And here I go to smash it.

 

Ah, the devil in me.

 

 

Ego? What the shit is that?

Ego, he convinces my lusting lumen,

“There are so many fish,” you say.

But, I snatch gleefully.

 

Empty down.

Down my gob will go more pills.

 

I suppose, so I can be well. That’s what the wise men say.

 

I can be well in hell.

They’ll take back my blue pajamas,

My brigand self.

Fix me I’m part white!

Take out me of here,

Give me my fucking oysters.

 

Lord, knows what citycide I could do.

I’d like a fuck right now,

Not the blue pill,

Not the white one.

Seven pills later.

I’m better now!

You know on the outside I’m a 13 year paramedic?

 

One day they will take that too.

 

 

I’d like a fuck.

A ludicrous notion, for I more deserve a bullet.

In the head.

For asset endangerment.

I deserve a backhand, at least.

 

For more broken promises,

For more dashed expectations.

Do enough of your hate me yet!

 

Two shots in the head, for endangering the Alawiite Mimi.

Mimi Marouf.

A blood daughter of the profit,

That’s why her group,

They got to trample on everyone in Syria.

 

When not lusting, or masticating horseshit.

Am I evolving?

Into the Baha’i Malcom X?

The Zionist general?

Universal happy man who tells jokes?

 

 

Grow up man.

Grow up.

They’d all say grow up.

33 is gonna be s big year.

 

 

Feed your ego no more triph.

Remember your wife and child.

Fight the desire to reduce yourself.

To loon. A killer. Or a devil.

Take you hand off your cock and close the screen.

Peasant. Serf.

The niggardly whitebacks are looking.

No one knows your code.

The leach, rip it off.

Your phone, into the river.

The poison,

 

It takes 40 days to get clear.

The Apple Biter himself!

 

“Grow up man.”

 

They took so much

You have,

You have,

You remember?

 

She said on the boardwalk,

 

“Grow up and do, great things. If you die,

If you die right now.

All the work we put into you was for nothing.”

 

Nothing at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TarWir-Hadiir.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is the reading of the prologue to Fire on the Mountain.

Prologue

 

 

Set in the Republic of Haiti, 2084ce

 

“What in two fucks do you know about being in love my tovarish,” she once asked me.

 

At the time I gazed off into the night. One does not even fully comprehend the depth of incorrigible things a truly Russian woman knows how to say to an American man in eight different tenses of a lover spurned. She now says I am a terrorist! Or at best a baltering zealot.

A frank and unrepentant potential killer of other men. But you cannot always trust women. They often lie to protect the things they cherish. Their children. Also the future.

I was not always such a man.

 

No ideological calling or message from the unseen put me on this path. I don’t kill because of mere ideas. Or because of poetic visions rationalizing some means to a so-called “better world”. The terror we have unleashed was born of misdeeds perpetrated against me and mine as well as against you and yours. It is no abstraction to embrace violence when an aggressor tramples on your face. It comes quickly or it remains unthinkable. I have no time these days for pacifists and certainly not for cowardly sheep. Turning the other cheek to these people we are fighting will get you far, far worse than killed. I have bloodied my hands before as a savage avenger and certainly soon will do so again. But, I don’t kill alone like some deranged fanatic.

Oh no. We laid an elaborate plan and have subsequently received extensive support.

We are not patriots or “freedom fighters” in the traditional sense of what that means in Geneva. This is not our land, nor through the fog of war do I see freedom as our figurative or even literal ends. Our means however will certainly not absolve us in the text books of history whether we be the winners or the losers. Cloaks and daggers have long been used to abet our cause. But, the ripping of human flesh with sharp blades in close quarters and the bursting of bullets though our enemies black hearts will perhaps tarnish our family names and simultaneously bar us all from the gates of any reputable heaven. I have left men hanging in trees! But, I’m not one to believe in fairy tales. They will have to torture me for a very long time, and they will not get much for their troubles. Neither my motive nor my names are easy answers. And you probably won’t be able to pronounce it anyway.

I am not acting alone. If I am a so-called “terrorist” committing acts of semi-selective murder I am alongside many fellow blood soaked bandits. Our cause has a certain appeal to at least a Breuklyn few. And if she’s right about me not knowing how to love well, or at all, I absolutely do know how to struggle until the lights in my eyes go out.

 

We are called the zealots after all.

 

We are hunting vicious killers. We are grinding down these sly villains where they hide, cutting bits and pieces from this rapist ilk. We work thanklessly to remove a large array of very-very cruel, bad men from the earth. Vile parasites that suck our blood and steal our meager earnings and reduced us all to slavery. Along with their secondary officers, tertiary command of vicious enforcers, and basically anyone that gets in our way. And if we cut our way through enough of these people we will then begin to lay hands on the oligarchy.

Let it not be said that before we picked up our daggers and rifles we did not first spend a good many years trying all other means of more civilized change making. I loved my people, and more specifically my family, before I hated our nemesis and the cruel minority of oligarchs and war criminals that so hold humanity on a vast plantation under their iron heel, but also our common apathy.

 

Or called in Russian; Raspizdia.

 

One who doesn’t give a fuck about their fellow human beings?

 

No giving of fucks!

 

Amid the thankless grind I see the face of a young woman following us where we go to commit murder. She follows just behind to save lives and heal. A physician who found herself trapped on this perhaps morally ambiguous road we travel as ruthless knock around highway men. Or so she claims. And every time I pull that trigger I fly further from the place I was boron and the good man that she once thought I was. Were it not for her, I’d have forgotten I still had one soul left with which to barter.

Our irregular military column of hearty partisans clears a rocky ridge. Forty men and one woman, all clad in dark grey or dark blue multi-forms, wrapped in tactical bandoleers carrying the tools of our respective trades—murder and healing. We men are here to kill. The solitary doctor amongst us with her implements touches the collateral of their war, but has sworn not to treat a soldier. On either side.

That morning we look for one bad man in particular.

It’s just before dawn when we finally catch up with his trail in the barrens of this dusty, dying and terrible place. The poplar trees sway heavily in the rustling morning wind, which offers our lonely column no real relief. We mill about gauging reactions, sipping gingerly on our water. A few lay down their battle rigs but keep their dusty irons always on the ready. We are hard men in rough grey khaki stained with sweat and grizzle but never tears. Some wear black or dark blue partisan caps. Others have checkered sand-gypsy scarves about their shoulders or brow. Most carry various calibers of former and Postsoviet rifles. Our doctor, she still wears a lab coat, a blue uniform, and wears a dark green military cap.

We march on.

 

The official name of our column is the Z.O.B.-Dublin Detachment also called the Fighting 99th. It is composed of Shtarkers, Shatahs, Fenians as well as a popery of the Haitian peasants from across the southland. If you’re not familiar with these particular edged colloquialisms, well I suggest you look them up in the appendix of exotic foreign vernaculars. Suffice to say they are just different ways to designate a “bad motherfucker.” Except Fenian, that is an Irish political nationalist ideology of the early 18^th century.

We go one foot after another. We walk with a heavy defiance, with cold eyes that view the barrens like hungry wolves. We are each a raw material mined from a foreign conflict, smelted at some point on Breuklyn’s coast into the violent war machine we now compose. Sun-burnt freckled faces, which had first turned cherry red in the glare of the Caribbean high noon. Dread-locked islanders with accents well edged for song. Also some post and former Soviets with shifty morals and a small band of self-proclaimed Yids that never lift a finger on a Shabbos but refrain from emasculating headwear. And the native people that had not asked us to come here look. I suppose they wonder if we foreign faces are to be the turners of a bloody tide or the worst harbingers of an impending catastrophic event. At this juncture the book is still open.

 

We march to this dead place to bear grim witness.

 

War on this island fortress, and war in the world of man have burnished us into unrepentant murderers that have killed and will surely kill again. That we kill to stave off an even greater genocide by murdering its perpetrators, is the rhetoric we hide our murder behind. And if each of us came to this wasteland below the Choke Mountains beyond Illubador out into the contested borderlands about the Valley of Antimonite with some noble pretense to liberate the Haitian people from the iron heel of the MINUSTAH and the NGO Republic and their Maccoute or FRAPH-rapist militia bag man; then periodically, it is the low volume atrocities like this one, which sometimes take the greatest toll on our resolve.

 

Roped up from the highest palm tree visible to all we men and single female of the Z.O.B.-Dublin detachment is the ghastly site of a hanged man we all knew and like a brother loved. A thick sanguine pool had formed below him. He is eviscerated. Slashed to fleshy ribbons perhaps just a few hours before we came upon him. He had broken camp at dusk, spirited himself away and wandered out from our garrison in Cange right into enemy hands. Had our ruthless jackal opponents had some notion of who the man was, he’d have been taken to a filtration camp like the others—the poor founding bastards of the Famni Lavalas Alliance- and flayed for information, tortured until he could no longer remember his Yiddish name. Perhaps this was better albeit completely inglorious. There is nothing about the condition of his corpse to make us think his end was particularly quick.

I knew this man so long that it was like stumbling upon a fresh crime scene of a beloved family member. To others, he was a tovarish of sorts, a less than humble man who sustained so many with his savvy and stalwart acts. The rest knew him as a fearless comrade and champion to so many souls not cut of his tribe’s cloth.

We find our close compatriot hanging disemboweled from a hook—his eyes gouged out, hands lopped off, bayonet marks slashed about his body— exsanguinated in a tree of death. He is now cold, wet and dead.

“Cut him down!”

“Cut him down and bury him deep,” commands a Pale Officer.

The future was evidently to be far bloodier than the scientists and high priests had originally prophesized and predicted. The physician’s blond hair, it blows in a swift desert wind. She looks away from the bloody mess we’ve made just for an instant.

 

Violence is the longest road to nowhere, but we seem to be making great time.

 

Scene 9

 

Blat! Goldy where are you? What have they done to you now?
And when he woke up a slave in the salt mines he had to invent other realities. As the brutal separation was too great.

 

He struck the walls of Potosi over and over again. He plotted away. His escape his mutiny his raising of an army and marching out to whatever city she was now held in. Burn down the entire empire city by city if he had room to do so. In darkness ten thousand captives struck the walls of the abyss, shattered away and tunneling. In some of their lands they had been warriors and kings. Others were simple men. Emptied lands that no longer existed.

 

 

The captives were of many tribes and many tongues. Most of not all were not white, for this was not the work of white men, mining salt and tunneling, but race was actually a distraction. He learned that in political theory class at University, when he was a young man. What year was this? What country, whose epoch was this?

Crack.

The pitiful sledgehammer strikes into bleak nothingness, ten thousand tunneling souls, and their families held in the neighboring townships in case they mutiny or do not make quota. They send us deep into the mines each day and await us to cart our dead out at dusk. Cart out our dead and the salt they use for batteries.

 

 

They ripped us from our lives as people, killed in us everything we knew about our cultures. Our religions. They reduced us to their zombies, their walking dead, something more broken than a slave. A hostage.

 

But there was hope, Avinadav would come back! Solomon would sing to us again, we would rebuild the temple, this was all prophesy, this was all real!

CRACK! My big yet flimsily hammer chips the wall.

            All my bloody day dreams were a speck! Yes, they were nothing and I was powerless to do anything but break rock.

My mind went deep into time, I was so many places at once, I was again with her. So many times before, and again god willing again in the sweet hereafter, in the worlds to come. What year was this? CRACK. What country am I slaving in?

 

My world is one of torment, I have lost everything. Every single thing. I have been made less than a number. I don’t even know what year it is. I would put out my own eyes, I would refuse the gift of air, but, but, but; I will bide my time, I will escape, I will find, but her real name is now lost to me, or was there even an inner most name, something for the even more cute.

I will get out of this wretched salt mine! I will kill my captors! I will raise and army, and march on the gentry who put me out like this, separated me from my true love. Will I?

In this life or the next. If you believe in such things.

Scene 8

 

            What were these poems about, besides my won suffering of course, they were a therapeutic parlor trick. I’m not sure very many anyone likes them, maybe not even Oleg the Bear, my absconded former droog and moral patron, no, the poems served my cause poorly, she could barely tolerate them, and when the love was a more fleshy thing, a more summer fling, it was built on bottles of wine and dinner and outings, not poems, less art.

            But one night after, the release of his first book to a drunken mob in a tavern, with no microphone he held the ground of literature so audibly, well she asked for new poem, it had been some three years since he composed for her, and there she was now asking in her panties for prose, but, this one was angry too, he hated her perhaps as much as he loved her for what happened before, being so much, well, torture.

 

 

“#104: The Reset, To Goldy”

 

Reset, “This girl is trouble, causing me so much trouble.

Some man not able to keep up; she now dancing on a table, she is walking on my words; like she don’t give a fuck!”

Razpizdai! I’ll love you now or never, I’ll love you even when you’re brutal. Even when a wine soaked savage! I can love you even when you lie.

For my actions are ever mounting, my every try, my every why! Is contemplated as belated to the risk, the whisk and everlasting sigh.

You lit your cigarette and I watched you walk away. Reset, the trauma of our courtship, it isn’t over yet.

And then, inside me bursts, and I reach out for the repeat. I am clawing at my vocab for the proper words to say, to declare a need for new replay.

You dangle out some pearls of small affections, then you snatch that shit away.

But the things I’m about to utter are known to you already, I beg the night and my tears streak tarnished manhood debased before my goddess, yet again.

“Be not like other men”, beg to be beside me, buy and spend to hold attention, “fuck it man,” she yells at me you’re doing it again!!”

I beg reset, does she even read my poems? Does she even like my tender kisses, do my actions even make her happy though my puppy eyes make her upset!

Reset, we’re not there yet. Yet being the walk away, yet being the closure we might not ever get.

Chowan say, “Shawty’s, like a melody in my head, that I can’t keep out,

Got me singin’ like Na, nah a Na every day, like an Ipod stuck on replay.”

Blond hair and soft thighs, pressed against my cheek, what was real she can’t remember but she’s sometimes sorry for her blackest lies.

And the evil of her insults, the latest ones this week! Of what evil can I even speak, I do for her what I am able, I bring her mild entertainment,

I speak warm words of loving and feeling and needing, ‘til she tells me not to even speak.

 

She says she is Russian, but she’s clearly taking-her-time, she’s picking her targets with ease. She a dangerous woman, we all can agree,

She can break a man’s heart with her smallest of actions, she prefers all her men on their knees.

                   Reset, our very disposition, hurling insults and command me to go, get gone! Three years did precious little to make you less a savage ethanol soaked beauty,

To better button up your buxom, or to make me value money over song. How, for now we play along. Hit the reset button of emotions, let the hungriest of hungry games begin,

It’s a carnal sin in Russia, to play like you ain’t playing, to over say what your eyes could just be saying, to take all or nothing with your win.

Get in line to love her! But be prepared to love amid a massacre, what a smile that she’s always wearing, rooting for you maybe, behind a devil of a grin.

Bury my tongue inside you, drinking deeply from what’s running down your thigh, I wonder why, I always wonder why! I even ever, never! I broken record try.

I grind ever hard to stay beside her, I want nothing else beside her, Reset an upset, we blink it’s a reminder we might not be together in another moment,

Might be strangers in a week.

You hear these words of hurting, you hear that blind devotion to the woman of which I speak?

How long have I loved Ms. Dasha? I loved her three years since I met her, I loved her in the world to come; I loved her overtime. I loved her in a hundred poems, I loved her in boats as well as banyas, I still want to lie beside her even after when I die.

Reset,

Hand cuffed to the bed you lie, I get hand cuffed to the ceiling or a chair. She fucked me over there, I loved her blackest magic, I lusted her legs apart again. We did it nearly everywhere.

If I was good at my all this loving as I pretend to be at all my saving,

If I was dancing in my own shoes; not break my back wage slaving, if I was more handsome? More established, more care free. That a pretty fucking woman, that’s a goddess of woman, and she doesn’t see a single thing in me.

Reset, ripped our heart, bed soaked in sweat, regret. I regret not one nothing, not one single fucking nothing. She has taught me more of life and struggle than the womb from out I came, I have no need for blame, I have little cause for shame, she’s spent so many nights to work me, to push me out of prison, to get me out of ghettos, to move me into flight,

Baby, give me one more night!

Rest again, is it even right.

Her smile is moon beam shine, I love to feel her chest move in breath upon me as we slumber, her gentle hands compliant as they rest inside of mine.

No fret, she hasn’t killed us yet. And the picture and the poems and the novels they will surely pile to the sky. She takes back her cruelest words, she knows when to say her sorry, when to rub my rhyme,

But I am enthralled to lust and love and live beside her for a second or third time.

Reset, she says, reset, the novel isn’t perfect yet. You’ve got typos to your proverbs, I’ve got plagiaristic lies.

“Dasha, stay!” he cries.

The wine she sips, the pouty nature of her ruby lips, the forgiveness and forgetting all the replay of the tries!

“Don’t be like other guys,” she says, “reset yourself and I’ll stay a little longer.”

We’ve been called many things, tell me Gold one what the future brings, “they used to call us whores and killers, now they call us lesser oligarchs and master spies.”

“Cheers to our last tries!”

“Your hope, (she notes) it somehow never dies.”

 

This was the very last poem he would ever write her in this life, and it was actually fairly mediocre, for there were approximately one hundred before it from when he first tasted her under the two blue moons, followed her deep into the Brighton labyrinth. Too angry and none too deep. But, I suspect I will kill it soon, she thinks.

I have almost nearly killed his epic love for me. Sad that it has to end, but it does. He has to get back to his more serious work! There’s a revolution to win, is there not, comrade? Our mixed up love is but a foot note in my happiness and your great war. Our war if you win, your war if you destroy yourself. A distracted speck, alright; a mighty spark. I’ll give you that my little Americans, you never ever seem to go quietly into the night for anything.

Scene 7

 

Explained a young Avindav Debutelier, to the crowded and spontaneously mobbed crowd of mostly non-white Israelis, near the Techanama Gaziit.

 

A most powerful, unamplified orator in Hebrew, Arabic, English and also Haitian Creole, which is similar but not the same to French, was he once a Haitian, is he still or did he just for many years take one to his bed?

 

What we did then to attract a crowd was drag a sound system into a square and begin with drums, begin with amplified primal sound, several of us in greys and blues, spotters on every approach with sky pagers, scanners and radios to notify us when the security forces were approaching. We learned this method form the card sharks on the Tiyeled. On the Boardwalk.

 

After the drums came a powerful Afropop song, and then, then the five minutes of nation time, the speech. The security forces were always nine to fifteen minutes away, in those days.

 

 

“Let me tell you a story about a woman and a man, which you have always been told as the most important story ever told about a man, a man who was also God.”

There are things you know you know, such as that the religion based around the man was called Christianity. And that roughly ⅓ of the Human race believes this story and its slight deviations of form. There are things you do not probably know, such as that man’s real name and how many children he bore and to whom. And there are things you do not know that you do not know, such know such as the command structure of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard corps, the names of the 5,000 tribes of Africa, what language your messiah sang in, and the access codes to the bunker complex below Jerusalem (Yerushaliim) where a tunnel system goes deep into the mantle.

You may know, that your messiah was born in Bethlehem (Bet Lekhem). You may know that he grew up in Egypt (Mitzrahiim) and that at the time of his battle against Rome he was employed as a carpenter in Nazareth (Natzeret). You may know a Romanized, Latin version of his name. Have had it repeated to you, until it took hold as the truth, but it is not his name, and it is not the truth!

You may not know that he sang in Aramaic and wrote in Hebrew and Greek, and that there is no J sound in those languages. Anything called J, is the designation of an occupier or conqueror, a Roman legion in Palestine perhaps.

Here again are things you do not know that you do not know, you do not even think about hearing these things. You do not when Pesach begins, or why. The calendar you use is a Roman Catholic and or Christian Orthodox innovation; the Julian and Gregorian calendars are solar, the pagan, the Mayan, the Hebrew, Persian, Arabic and Chinese calendars are lunar. You do not know that you do not know who invented time.

Here again, you do not know that you do not know so many things. Such as the spatial spiritual chakra points, such as the importance of Moscow. You do not know where your food came from or what’s in it, or how many hours it takes a child to make your clothing. You do not think about hearing these things because, they make you culpable. They imply your collaboration with the empire: with and by default your implicit acceptance of the fate of the slaves.

You know there are several large religions, you can reject all of them which is easy, or pick a tendency of a block, all of them are based on events you did not see, interpreted in languages you functionally cannot speak and you call that faith. You are generally when born to pick one, or have picked for you generally speaking you are to be a Christ follower, a Mohammadian (One who submits to God and his prophet Muhammed), a Hindu or under the rule of the Chinese Communist Party, therefore living under Confusicism. Or, you’re in some much-much lesser marginal sect, or a Buddhist, keeping out of the cosmic wars. Anyway, three of the four major religions are at war at all times. Almost always historically due to a Christian offensive.

Hindus have kept hundreds of millions of people locked into servitude and subjugation. Christianity and Islam have been in direct warfare since the Crusades approximately since 1000ce. Today, there is not one single county where Muslims are not being slaughtered or persecuted. All of the central cores to the core 46 states are Christian, except Japan and the Petro states. All of the poorest most ravished nations are Christian and Muslim, converted during the colonial epochs.

I’m sure those things don’t come up in your Church. And we are very much not fighting a cosmic war. It is absolutely a war grounded in base human inequality, or less mildly; the suffering of five billion plus humans while some, less than one billion drink, use drugs, fuck hookers, watch sports, tune out to Netflix, buy things and more things and stuff their faces until they all die of heart disease, and head to a church to absolve their daily sins. A church where a man who was not white is white on the walls. A church where the things that man, and his wife and their 12 deputy officers and several thousand supporters stormed the temple and declared war on Rome. And for the next 100 something year’s 66-136ce over three major military uprisings fought the Empire on all fronts.

You know only what you want to know to justify that you are in the wrong side of history paying your taxes to the new Rome, running around with those smart phones checking in checking out, selfies with the mark of the beast.

You don’t know the acronyms to the secret police organizations that are organizing the terror Attacks and mass shootings. You don’t know the names of the men who meet every summer in California to manage the county. You don’t know the names of almost any of the countries raped to keep your consumer goods so cheap. You can’t even read a map.

You don’t know, that you don’t know that when the children, the great descendants of that man you eat the body of and drink the blood of and wait for him to return, make themselves known to us, he’s dead. You are praying in the language of the oppressor. You are masquerading along to a fiction story based nothing on what actually happened. You are hanging crosses! The selfsame symbol of Roman rape and repression around your very neck. You are celebrating holidays that are feasts to the devil, glutting your face on your thanksgivings, a mockery of Indian genocide. You are worker proles and sleeping zombies and serving a vast killing machine. Your countries of the west are colonial killing machines sucking the rest of us dry.

I am not Toussaint I did not come to lead the army I am Debutellier; I speak for the black and oppressed. And I am not commander Solomon I have never heard the voice of God, I posit myself neither as savior conqueror nor general. Nor some lesser mad Hebrew prophet. I am just one more revolutionary on a square.

I am only one partisan and friend of the people. Uniformed pararescueman, 7775 as my shield says. I am here in the wilderness not tell your religion, but to warn you that we are planning a new uprising. Not one based on imaginary masculinized voices in the sky, not one based on beliefs. It will not be directed at the North West but instead all the dark forgotten brutalized places in the periphery, in the colonies.

 

 

I did not come to warn you or make you change your ways!

I am a partisan practitioner, not an agitator to the deaf and mute and blind. Hidden in the stories I can tell you is a simple truth. Humanity ought not wait for some white washed savior, humanity ought not live as they do.

Christendom is a sickly mockery of the heroes martyred in our cause. Time wrote your bible. Islam is a sickly mockery of our second major rising. The Yazidis and Umayyads wrote your Quran. Everywhere I look I see Christians feeding the devil machines, I see Muslims dying and dying but not knowing their own prophet, the cousin of Yeshua Ben Yosef, who the Romans and Saul called Christ. Everywhere I look i see the oligarchy grinning and glutting themselves in every nation.

I did not come to the Wilderness of North America to bring you a New Social Gospel, for that was brought by women and men before me. I did not come reconcile your scriptures, this too was done by the Baha’i.

 

A pager goes off in his pocket, indicating the spotters have marked incoming security forces.

 

 

 

“I came to tell you to pack your bags and wear blue cloth, to march with us in columns and fly in convoy, to fortify 144 positions in the periphery where men and women die like dogs. Are killed every day in plain sight.  I came to tell you that we will organize the next uprising to starve the core, to embargo the high places to encircle the citadels of the oligarchy and free our people. They cannot kill us all!”

And whether it be us, or the leadership, be it us or our great grandchildren we will march into Yerushalayim with ten million fighters, having put down Rome, put down Washington, London, Paris, Geneva, Berlin, Moscow and Beijing too, brought the killing machine of the world system to a halt.

And you will then know that your God did not send you more lambs. It send bloody avengers.

 

 

 

A young Amerikanski in the audience, who had come here to the colonies be a poet and a farmer, now with a sky pager, then set off a series of bombs up the street with a cell phone. It ripped apart some parked cars, hopefully didn’t kill or maim anyone this time. Wasn’t anything the colonial government wasn’t already doing for social control, which was certain. Which is to say in the summer of 2001, the American occupational government in Israel, acting through the emergency powers of the Likud party was blowing up its own people quite readily.

 

Scene 6

 

Raphael Ernesto Lynch Contreras has known for years that Sebastian was building an army, for they shared a social club, they shared many drinks, they shared a love for Russian women, they were friends! Raphael had done his best to guide him through his long affair with Dasha Andreava, but there was nothing that could really be done about that.

Sebastian was at the end of the day a romantic in an age when that was mostly uncalled for.

I was told to put together a little convoy of ambulances and armored flatbed trucks and make my way toward the Bronx through the demilitarized zone. Most of the bridges and tunnels are down the only one left is the White Stone. Our aim was to resupply with water and provisions, with rockets and bullets and black bread the fighters serving under General Allamby in the South Bronx.

I may be jumping ahead a little bit, thinks Rafael.

Before there was the war there was dinner.

In the fall of 2015 I attended a small dinner in the ghetto at the home of Ms. Catherine Hall, advertised as 8 to late, but I was mostly on time and so were most of the forty other guests, a wide and motley assortment of ambulance men and women, of teachers and students, and other healthcare workers and also some business men and opportunistas.

We are all there to drink wine and hear a short shall we say lecture by our friend Sebastian Adon, who had recently returned to Brooklyn from his two years in exile near Boston where he’d been studying international development on a sustainable basis, he’d improved his vocabulary in those wilderness camps.

            So there we were it was the year 2015 and month was called October and there were forty mostly strangers sharing wine and a range of other dishes Cat Hall and Sebastian Adon had cooked up for the lecture, discussion, whatever. Sebastian was dresses in a blue uniform similar to an EMS uniform, but not the same, faded from the three months he spent in Cuba, DR and Haiti where it was hand washed. It was blue, it bore his name, it identified him as “instructor”, on one arm a white shield identified him a New York City paramedic, on the other arm, the blue and red flag of Haiti, which was also the flag of the Resistance he hoped to enlist the forty of us in. Many had been involved in the five years of smuggle, deploy teach in Haiti, others had written for or distributed the Banshee Newspaper, before it was suppressed.

 

Officially we were founding the New York City Shop of the Development Union, Shop #02 since one had been opened a week before in Seim Reip, Cambodia by Arlene Gormley.

That was before the secret police raids drove us underground, well that was nearly a year later of good talks and new friends and West Indian Hillal, red light jazz suppers. That was before Liana came into his life.

Scene 5

 

As the rough and frigid waters overtook me, no, I saw no white light of god, I saw my feral Slavic goddess. Mocking me? Rooting for me boldly? I could no longer actually tell. For a cold and flowing liquid salt deluge would perhaps soon inundate my trachea.

Goldy, should I call you that in public, cheapen you a little with banal Americanization, maybe I should try. But, still I’ll never forget you, and I dear suggest you will always call me by my real name. No cutesterisms, subterfuges or ethno vernaculars!

I will tell you what beautiful nakedness looks like! Jesus of Christ she’s lying there in my bed and my eyes lock with hers, it’s so hot. The ghetto loft, the rolling of inbound and outbound trains rumble like the waves that last killed me. It is all like a dusk time dream, her blond hair lioness mane on my pillows, her buxom defiance and he eyes. Well her tits her tits and her eyes, for I am man. And the sweat rolls off us both, the loft is a bake box. I just cooked her paella, we put away almost whole bottle of 1,000 Stories, there’s proverbial blood on my lips, “Recite me one of Adelina’s poems!” A most curious and un-intimate request, as there are over 99 poems written to the tune of her being. And only maybe six for the woman that I loved after she vanished into another man’s arms, and I into grim two year exile in the provinces. The cold empty provinces, with angry white peasants, where it snowed for two years, “I want to here your best poem for her!”

The wine took places each time that were nearly loving. Drugs and electronic dance music would kill everything every time, she was not trying hard. She was not trying ever to be in this space, this life we lived in the foothills of the city. Nearly starving in the shadow of plenty.

She lies there, not mine or anyone’s. Half naked in my bed. I am no longer even paid in occasional kisses, I am paid in time, for since the night we met, the night she almost killed us, the second nights we met, oh three years ago maybe; she passed to me a little note after sleeping in my arms for two nights in a forest, in the badlands of warehouse district; he note said, “Sad that it will end.”

And it had ended many, many times before. There is music that plays in my head and I hum to it, to focus. To bring myself back from the clouds, from the war effort, from the targets, from the evil we fight; I hum and I rush back into my body. “Reset,” she whispers. Whenever she notices me do that, she loves only mind, if she loves even that.

“You are the smartest man I know, you’ll figure out what to do,” she once said, she is the one who convinced him to go into exile to acquire the resources for his, shall we say doomed campaign of insurgency.

“Reset,” she whispers looking, dripping, wine her lips, pale skinned perfection, everything he’s ever wanted in a partner forever, reset. That little hum he makes has only been noticed by one woman before, which was Adelina Blaze. Bringing his wildest ambitions back to his body.

“One of her poems? Why?”
“I just enjoy you making performances, we need not be sentimental. Go on,” Goldy says.