a badly done haiku about gun safety

  дети  веселые
          они пулемет нашли
никто не живет

(some happy children

   found a big, old machine gun

     everyone's dead)

   
   

slapping underworld

Let's play pretend
that your life is
    under control ;
Don't get defensive
        about the
drinking and the trick
     you have,
the one where you make
          every one
nod like puppets
  and cut our
       own  strings
while we jiggle our
     chalky heads
 in agreement to
      your latest
indiscretion.

  It's bad luck
      or getting touched
 by an uncle when you
           were nine
or some other outrage
       horrible as it
            is
still not an excuse to be
       such a sorry
               endeavor
leaving imploded egos
        and aborted
  feelings of adequacy
    in your tumbling wake,  
        the scent of too much
                perfume and
   vodka prop wash
             trailing
behind your scanty
        frame
festooned with
     worshipful bruises
   dripping with attention
nobody is that pretty
nobody is that smart
    you're just as
    boring as the rest
      of us,
               but lacking
a sense of
    shame
        

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