“A line is a fuse
The line smolders,
the rhyme explodes—
and by a stanza
is blown to bits.”
― Vladimir Mayakovsky
Love early and love often, but do not allow love to die in the flesh. It should inspire work and art. It should make the world eventful and less cruel. Love is actually impossible to capture in mere poems. Then, the worth of a poem, almost nothing. There are also many kinds of love. Now the deeds which love inspires cannot always undo cold hard circumstance. Not all love is appropriate or movie like love. I have been accused of exclusively loving Russian women, I find this trivial and not purely true. I have loved great women. Powerful in their own right as artists and inspiring in their own conduct. It so happens that many were born in the former Soviet Union. My craft both in the words or in the paint does no real justice to the force majeure of my partners and muses. I am not a womanizer, not every subject was a conquest. Nor am I attempting to claim that courtship, muse like persuit make life anything more than tumultuous living. Yet my life as much as I have lived in so far has been a free life, for I was born with rights and privileges that allowed me wide canvas for painting.
These poems then dedicated to all involved and dedicated to the future. Broken and fallen over many times, our ripped out hearts, our violent fucks, our romance and our adventures. This stuff makes art, but it is not without suffering. I regret nothing. Only the cruel words when said when love like the phoenix dies. Or when when impossible expectations are not met. These women have made me hard enough to do the far rougher work ahead. Poems: silly poems! What are poems to heroic deeds? They are only promises to unlimited operations to come.
These poems did not write themselves. Great women brought them forth. It is very hard to date a possibly mad man. I am a zealot, driven by unseen forces which make me think battling demons and storming castles and changing whole worlds is possible, if carrying her standard. None of these loves was a perfect love. If such a thing even exists. These are hard and completely glorious women and I attempted to love each fearlessly in art and war, in her own ways. It should be said, that like the Great Soviet poet laureate Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky, to whom I also dedicate this first anthem of my collected poems; I am not wholly at ease in my own time. A hipster makes art for art sake, thinking the art is enough. But actually all great art has to be in service of something more.