Numbers 1 through 100

Sounds are a soft touch

   you might say that they

   leave the skin unfurrowed 

but the heart bears the

    wrinkles of their 

      passage

the harsh words

   bouncing off the 

            icy air

or the snap of a bullet

   have no power over

     the song of someone

         beautiful calling my

name, love

     better even than 

this blissful gift

      is the tiny little toy

propeller sound of 

    your cloudy 

baby heart,

       changing the 

doctor's office into a wizard's

     tent

            nor the needle of your

 cries 

      the day you opened

 your eyes,

     that red mouth 

                 making a pillar of 

     air that lifted my heart

     my little one carrying every

           egg of my

                  future

the blood of heroes

                   from my own forested veins

            into yours

You 

    as you made words, as you called for me

               raising arms to me,

     saying "up!"

                  I am only so big and strong

as you see me

     a hero only as you have led 

            me to be

  

      

elements

If there was a calculus
    that measures the weightless
elements of feel
  what would we
          see?

Is sadness the weight of
     a mote of dust,
       a lost penny,
        an engine block
          seized up with rust?

Is hope a lithium-weighted
   metal, angelic and
     brittle?
a speck of magic..

And then there is anger.
 Anger is not a noble gas
     some might say it's like sodium
reacting in unpleasant, unflinching ways
         most likely, metallic
     It's probably magnetic
attracting resentment,stubbornness,
         and jealousy
but it's necessary
     as a catalyst

                If hydrogen is the most plentiful
      of physical elements,
         here, anger can't be far behind
   
             using the isotopes of anger
 can fuel fires of change
    when with hope or love combined
that new molecules arrange
       stainless bravery
shiny integrity
         the lead of endurance
heavy and sweet to the taste

  In this idiotic forge
      things get broken
and polished at the
         same time

Like arsenic,
   carry yours with you in
the ironwork of your bones
    giving you shape and
            the armor of
    resistance

some day, some alchemist
     pulling the plug on science
             might
coax it into gold,
   but I doubt it
           would be half
              as valuable


         

Drought

Yes, it is..

  the world is full

   of ugly people and bad ideas

    so thick, you can't help

 breathe them in.

 

    They do stick

to you like

 dogshit on a bouncy house

    (i know)

It's covered in broken furniture,

 stained carpets 

     and overhead lights

that flicker and buzz

    

....that smell? 

 

   Feel it stick to your

           skin,

 that greasy layer

  clogging your pores.

           < *>

 

         far off,  it's 

       raining a good 

       hard pour

       cleaning up the 

      stale stank  from  every 

      crack and gutter

     

      Why not down our

      necks

      cooling off our eyes

      sweetening our throats

     until we can look 

        each other in 

        the face again 

     and kiss like 

          as if

    we'd never kissed

     anyone else?

       

        

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