dream yourself awake.

Когда молодой ,
  слепой ,глухой ,
       я в бадарке работал вышибалой
И  Иногда  представлялся мне   ,
        ждая
      что настоящий  метродотель
                 и я  ....

нет ли у вас
   мечтаний своих ,
в жизни своей ?
    живете ли
              вы над крышею
                               кладбища
о в стране под ведением
   подпеца ?

-------

When i was young,
     willfully blind,deaf
I used to be a whorehouse bouncer
 and sometimes, while I
         waited around,
i would imagine that
         i was a fancy head waiter

don't you have your own
        dreams, in your  
     own life?
         Aren't you living on the roof
of a graveyard,
          living in a country
                       led by a
                                           pimp?
       

         

Rodina, skol'ko stoit? (How much, Mother Russia?)

They who have never been cold
     beaten in the snow by strangers
stinking of drink
      unkissed by misfortune,not seen
prices chalked on the soles
       of scuffed shows
crowning thick ankles on
       rusty park benches

They who know not
  the taste of bread covered in ashes
the smell from Autumn mud as
it mates with other stinking clay

Who know not
  that everybody's ass
is up for grabs,
  that it's you today
       and me tomorrow
that the fix is in and
     the inside crowd
       decides what they get to keep
that the name of the boss is not
    the name painted on the office dooor
 They who know not that
      a man on his own is
      one to be distrusted

 Will never understand you, rough
           and beautiful mother
Rodina, elegant and scarred
     victim and victimizer
giving your love to men who
         violate you
 your bleeding
mouth, jagged stumps and all,
  who use you to rip your
own children to shreds
 and drain an entire sea
  to make their base dreams
          come true.
Comfortable men, here, who
  don't speak skaz*
     and never brawled
             will never understand you,
Which is why they will fail
         to save you
          from yourself

sticks and stones

Try explaining that a poem is
        a picture
painted on air,
   that stories are more
            forgiving,
not prone to self-destruct
   from single sagging words.
             Those poems
                  so heavy and hard to craft
standing the test of time,
      the black and white image
    of a dust bowl mother
           looking off into            
  a cloud of dreams,
       or the ones like silver rivers
                against impossible black
                    wilderness,unforgettable
          and then are
   Those poems scribbled on napkins
                                    scraps of paper
                flying away or left laying in coffee grounds
                                  and orange peels,
                      gone like passports from
                                                            countries that
no longer exist.
               everything so delicate and un-catch-able.
                            They are not wise answers, like
                   well worn stories,
                                                      these pieces of  words,
caught like silk on blades of grass,
              or staring back at us stuck in time,
             they seem to ask us,
"isn't truth just another name for beauty?
                      are we
                          not
                                           worthy?"
                                   
         
               
         
             

Pillow Talk NOT for librarians

Whores make me sad
    even when they seem to be having
      a good time.

I am a pearl
     anyone with a heart can see that
but not you

 there's a war on,
 between who you think I am, deargirl,
 and the truth

and here, you're in
  some bright  journey of self-fulfillment.
I'm a sign

for something odd
like "giant gophers" or "alligator king"...
roadside shit

bumming your trip
to a glamorous future landscape
free from the past.




       

Staff Meeting...A Study in Brown

Time to be awesome
Having an awesome time
Awesome co-workers
Nothing is not awesome
Kind of awesomely

Yes, this is awesome
One awesome
Utilizing awesomeness
                                       
                                       --Sierra B. Maxwell

Why I am not a hugger....

they say that true love
   alters not, though
             alteration finds
and you may seek it like
           a star
that guides a wandering
       ship, o
they're goddam right sometimes,
         from the day you lose your
                  fkkn mind
   and your friends think you started
              smoking crack
     doesn't ever take a drive
and not come back,
       that it stays and sleeps
     on your couch
        makes a smell you can't
            track down in
   your closet.
         True love, that worrisome
thing, itching like a cast
      on your broken arm,
turning it weak and white and skinny
      It's a wingman that farts
              in a crowded bar
   blaming it on you
             I'll name it Chet or Chase
                      or Halston    
                    because those are douchebag names
that always has to have the last laugh.
     Oh true love, you
        blind drunk bastard,
             lead me around,
      scrawling idiotic titles and
           penises on my face with
               your sharpie
      vaguely sticky to the touch
           naked and reeking of tequila
  in the most embarrassing of places
              True love, I want to stop being your
                     bitch
   because i always end up being
          the one who has
                  to eat the soggy cracker,
but a bro is a bro
           and your hot  promise whispers of success end up
                      with someone else getting laid
              in a way they can be proud of, and
                            me hoping for a
                                reacharound at least.
             

bachata

..and we go as we go
    stumble down and try to say "i meant to do that"
we're clueless, but nod
    "i know..i know"
from bad to worse
   to bearable to
      better
this game is best played
 in a universe of
     suitably handicapped friends

and when you find someone who
  feels right in the palm
   of your scrubbed hands
      and smell the flower of her
        graceful neck sway
to music that is too cheap and rough
      for present company,
perhaps there
     is and should be
       the unheard roar
            of an invisible crowd,
indecipherable numbers
     lighting up the board..

and perhaps there
   is and should be
     a higher basket of points
     more than stars
       or all the grains of sand
when you almost fall
 and say,
     "i meant to do that" and
she smiles her lustrous smile and says
        " i know, i know"