V. Putin is one very sick puppy

i'm on a sunny deck

wondering how my dog will recover

from being bitten on her tongue by an angry groundhog

which she cornered in the woods

on our Mother's Day walk.

it was a young hog, probably having a first encounter

with a dog, but amazingly adept at defending itself.

my dog, Osa, bled quite a lot. 

even after i managed to separate the gladiators,

she was reluctant to break off the fight.

but i've thoroughly washed her in warm, soapy water,

removing most of the bright blood that had covered her muzzle and

front legs.

but now drinking my second full glass of Port wine is making me

mellow, and i might offer some to her,

as she watches the gold fish in my small pond.

she needs to become more philosophical about her life,

is my conjecture.

the wine, you ask?

yes, it's a quite good Portuguese wine, from the vineyards

in the Douro Valley.

i've opened the bottle and there's no one else to share

it with;

right now i'm alone in my growing older years.

it's okay; i'm fine with this

state of affairs.

see, there's time for cooking and reading, although i've been neglecting

the house cleaning part lately.

mostly it's the Ukraine disaster that's keeping me awake at night,

so maybe another bottle of wine will help me sleep.

i'll consider that thought, while lingering under this early summer afternoon sun.

nearby, i have three large baskets of beautiful flowers hanging from tall poles,

and lots of red and violet dahlias, and a fantastic yellow yarrow,

which is a perennial and it happily survived the cold winter months.

i have an expansive view over a river and easily see the far hills,

but i am disturbed by crazy psychopathic people, and it's

obvious to me that V. Putin is one very sick puppy,

and hopefully his tongue is bleeding, too.

he might need a soapy shower

and a very long nap,

while my dog simply needs a short nap.

he is the major protagonist responsible for the Ukraine disaster.

i hope he has difficulty sleeping at night.

may he never be offered a glass of good Port wine.

cursing Stalin

the Twentieth

or was it the Twenty-second Party Congress

changed course

almost in mid-stream

like in a Goya dream

and it finally occurred to many

life could still offer plenty,

beyond cursing Stalin,

who ate his own people 

without a fork,

enjoying his soup with heaps of steaming pork

while shivering mothers' froze

innocent of any crime

but getting ten years' time

imprisonment

in a punishment cell

(a deep dark basement hell)

or off to a labor camp

to die today or tomorrow

simply heartbreaking pain and sorrow

where nothing is right

daylight becomes night

almost dead

dreaming of being plump, rested, and well fed.

Catherine the Great

a rumble of Cossacks rising,

sweeping the ancient prison floor

with howls of laughter,

could be heard by

Catherine the Great,

who didn't smile at their joke.

she knew death

and what it was,

and hoped to teach them a lesson.

her ambition was to be a highway woman,

paving a cruel road for these travelers.

smashing illusions with glee,

she knew perfectly well there was nothing

to hope for outside of the party,

or inside the party,

when she set the rules.

on the Black Sea beaches there were no tennis players

lobbing wishes into the air,

and no leather-goods factories spinning yarns

for the proletarian to wear.

and on an island in the White Sea,

there was no one else alive.

listening to Diana Ross

Brazilian fish stew

so who knew

crossing the bridge could be so hard

a glass shard

cutting the grass

and shooting stars

dodging speeding taxis and unlicensed cars

up town 

blinding white

white walls

making all the important calls

arranging an interview

so who knew

pop art

pop tart

straight or narrow

hiding in the attic after 5 o'clock

walking the neon block

swimming in Central Park 

only when it's completely dark

wearing designer glasses

attending high society classes

sipping tea

with the ladies in their finest finery

playing the fool

in a massive public pool

black as more than simply a color

more than any other

a tough go

head to toe

so who knew

standing solo,

dressing in perfect Polo

wearing a white wig

eating a Spanish olive and a tasty fig

listening to Diana Ross

in a rain-lashed lightening storm

feeling wet and wild

elevated like a giddy God-child

on the easy side of the bridge.

waiting in line

tears on the house wall

and i'm afraid to walk

while standing tall

watching the dawn

before the fall

and there's so much i don't know

remembering the old dime store

and the 25 cent picture show

from long ago 

so which way to go

waiting in line for the current sideshow?

and when the sun starts to fade

there's nothing good that i made

but you're telling me to try my hand

at something that i don't understand?

how can anyone run on the track

when they have marks on their back?

how can she touch me?

she knows that i'm not free

dreaming on a passing cloud

but i'm talking much too loud

the words aren't making sense

i'm striking out in self-defense

no open arms or fancy charms

i'm selling you the farm

as i pass this way and that

not a bum and not an aristocrat

so i'll see all the stuff you advertise

wondering how to win the first prize

stooping low and reaching for new highs

and it has to have an end

but maybe only when i overspend

tears on the house wall

and i'm afraid to walk

while standing tall

watching the dawn

before the fall

and there's so much i don't know

remembering the old dime store

and the 25 cent picture show

from long ago 

so which way to go

waiting in line for the current sideshow?

what the Indian said

the American Indian stole my heart

she carried it to her sacred land

buried it deeply at wounded knee

she never asked me what i wanted to be

if i were to grow in size

foolishly fooling around while acting wise

crying on the open prairie 

over top of all the unmarked graves

the noise of galloping wild horses

war cries of the charging braves

smoke curling low on the land

drumming up the mountain top

amplified music piercing my soul

but there's not enough money to pay my toll

tribal lands with ghost riders of the lost

carrying their burden whatever the cost

laments wailing at the dying of a rose

in whatever direction the heated air blows,

i simply sit reading by candlelight

looking out my western-facing window;

and when it was finally time for bed

I still hadn't learned the lesson of what the Indian said.

cracked glass on the kitchen table

naked children crying on the dirt road

smoke curling around their falling tears

no joke

to make them laugh

the barbed wire strung like nervous energy

Martin Luther dead on the cement landing at the Lorraine Motel

blood stains

candy canes

armored tank tracks plowing a farmer's field,

looking for a target

looking for you

holding a white bag staring at the driver

drum beats like leather batons smacking a palm

war slogans repeating like staccato bolts of madness

Putin wearing his war criminal mask,

dancing on the graves of elderly people,

following the footprints of bastardly old Joe.

a friend said he was from Bedford-Stuyvesant,

New York City,

holding an automatic rifle at birth.

full metal jacket

wrapped against the cold steel

without gloves

black wrist bands screaming revolution

lovers looking up at the night sky

Orion

James Webb space telescope designed to make sense

of the mysterious

Age of Aquarius

the stage in the summer of '69

in Harlem's Mount Morris Park

and all for black not negro

proudly raised fists!    

a Javelin launched and a dead helicopter with crew members

dismembered

cell phone calls to mom answered

she is heard to say "Dear son!"

skin peeling from the heat

refugees listening to Led Zeppelin,

singing their immigrant songs,

waiting for decent food and a safer place to sleep

underground

bunkers and sandbags

Vietnam

Ukraine

how many more?

a police radio

confusing static

Mussolini

Nicolae Ceausescu

cracked glass on the kitchen table

bomb debris

the Pope, apologizing frequently

without wearing handcuffs

on the Vatican square,

knows there's not enough stones

to cast out the devil.

the ruins of Mariupol

from the mountains near Hiroshima

where gentle faces now bloom,

memories of a silent night

slip from a silent room

on the softest of slippers, 

as innocent as snow,

into purified air 

while the Japanese winds blow

to the far ruins of Mariupol

where innocent citizens died!

when a tyrant said he was peaceful

but mothers knew that he lied;

the children are hungry;

the old folks cried:

their shadows have fallen

and remain by their side.

with a note from mother

after all,

there were voices

from far down the hall

listening for a coded call

out on the rural road

where winter wheat were already mowed

but the mud is deep

and the escape routes steep,

sudden death taking a last breath;

Russian noses in senseless poses

looking for a safe place to sip their cold beer 

wondering why the beautiful women won't come near

and they can't remember their names:

the wild animals are all looking the same;

some with crowns and some with short hair,

coming undone from god knows where,

roaming the countryside with a gun in hand,

causing mayhem but why for the life of me i simply can't understand,

while hiding in my deep hole with a note from mother.

children, stay on the bus

the threatening red horizon 

of another early dawn,

with no birds singing

in winter weary trees,

and house doors swinging noisily,

opening

to frigid air,

was prophetic from where i stood.

everything seemed strange,

with loud thunder claps exploding,

but no rain.

in the maternity room,

pregnant women cried in pain,

waiting for a birth that might never arrive.

the trains hadn't been on time for several days.

someone on the station platform imagined an end to the day 

which had begun

with a strong smell of danger in the air.

on the only straight road leading west out of town,

an old woman struggled to carry her life's memories inside a small, torn bag.

there were hollowed-eyed people digging

communal burial trenches,

under the threat of their own sudden death.

a farmer's field remained unplowed,

and soldier's boots filled a property line ditch.

mother, a voice calls, where are your sons?

an answer arrives:

father, is your gun clean and ready to fire?

yes! children, stay on the bus heading to paradise.

with love to Russia

from Ukraine,

with love to Russia:

"Momma, your son will not be

coming home!"

the dictator with his pet baboon

while i'm reading by lamp light

about our futuristic tools

a dictator is having his lunch

but he's angry at those he rules

for mixing fresh lettuce with day old bread

and now he wants the kitchen staff dead.

they know the way out the back door

but it's blocked by an alligator

who tells them to come back later

when all should be well.

they grow impatient because they recognize the smell

of their own fear:

nothing is as it seems to appear.

so out a side window they jump

hoping to ditch the dreary dump

before their lives completely diminish and erode,

using a moral compass to find the higher road,

leaving the dictator alone with his pet baboon,

hungry and howling at the waning moon.

he's still angry at those he rules

but momentarily content 

as he strokes his family jewels.

sleeping in an old Soviet kitchen sink

i know well:

you're in a prison cell

shuffling down the halls

bouncing off the walls

romancing like a thief

while shuddering like a wind-blown leaf

trying to think for yourself

without falling from the shelf

but it's a trap where you breathe

and you're forbidden to leave

i know well

your life is hell:

unable to speak your mind

unable to acknowledge whatever you find

when adding 2 plus two

three open-toed sandals and a blue suede shoe

it's five but someone has been telling you

and you've been told what to think

as you're sleeping in an old Soviet kitchen sink

shuffling down the halls

bouncing off the walls

romancing like a thief

while shuddering like a wind-blown leaf.

June 1st, 1962

On June 1st, 1962,

The Communist Party press

in Novocherkassk

reported that the price of butter and meat

would rise by 25%

and workers' wages would decrease by 30%.

On June 2nd, seven thousand workers from the

Electric Locomotive Works stormed to the police station

and the Communist Party headquarters

in an effort to protest.

Soviet Army General Matvey Shaposhnikov, 

put in charge of the armed detachments 

stationed nearby, 

refused orders to shoot at the workers,

but many soldiers simply couldn't resist the impulse.

the dead were loaded into trucks and disappeared.

later, 

Shaposhnikov wrote:

"The Party has turned into a car which is steered by a reckless,

drunken driver who is always breaking traffic rules.

It's high time to take away the driver's license and prevent

a catastrophe...

Today it is extremely important that the working people

and the intellectuals should see clearly the essence of the political

regime under which we live.  

They must realize that we are under the rule of the worst form of autocracy

which rests on an enormous bureaucracy and an armed force...

It is necessary that people learn to think.

Our blind faith is turning us into mere living machines.

Our people have been deprived of all political

and international rights."

The KGB were not amused.

He was quickly stripped of his army rank

and his membership in the Communist Party.

Subsequently, he lived in modest retirement until his death in 1994,

always convinced he made the right decision.

In 1920, Stalin said

In 1920,

as a young revolutionary,

Stalin said,

"May the god of history help me."

perhaps he knows that the god did not

help him,

but still demands to be thought of highly.

And on the world stage we have one of his successors

making demands,

thinking highly of himself.

what a waste to appeal to the god of history:

his fate is sealed.

Bloodlands

Bloodlands,

sucking quicksands

expensive drinks spilled onto the Kremlin floor

like memories of a great heroic war

near a private bathroom door

left ajar

look! 

a spying

 

sitting Tsar

taking a needed break

holding his pet snake

reading history books and fairy tales

polishing his scales

hissing orders over the phone

while sleeping alone

with himself as his best friend

waiting for the enigmatic end

missing a loving heart

pointing to an ancient wall chart

watching the tiny grains of sand 

slipping thru his Russian hand

like dreams of former empire

strung on the other side 

of  distant barbed wire.

Russian warship

Russian warship.

Go fuck yourself.

this bear has sharp teeth

Romania,

and Sweden,

Finland,

the Baltics

along with Poland,

and other neighbors

who have spotted a cunning bear roaming

near their cultivated gardens,

a peace train is coming.

meanwhile,

Be Safe, brothers and sisters.

this particular bear has sharp teeth 

and fresh blood

is on his claws;

his appetite is voracious.

there is only a small margin of safety.

Putin’s grave

Andrei Dmitriyevich Sakharov 

died 

and the thousands of mourners listened to

Chopin’s “Funeral March” and

Schumann’s dirge “Traumerai”,

a lament for the dead.

At the cemetery,

lingering by his coffin,

his widow kissed him once more.

Soon the grave was covered over with flowers,

red carnations and yellow roses.

But the people will piss on Putin’s grave.

eating salt peanuts

i'm frustrated, honey

eating salt peanuts

on the dance floor

spending my money

while you're keeping score.

i'm hearing things

every time my phone rings

shuffling to the beat

from in the back seat.

i don't have the view

of what's coming over you

but i'm going broke

laughing at your joke:

like a busted inside straight,

i'm always one card late

feeling out of time

at the scene of the crime;

and when the music stops

the final curtain drops.

i'm frustrated, honey

eating salt peanuts

on the dance floor

spending my money

while you're keeping score.

i'm hearing things

every time my phone rings

shuffling to the beat

from in the back seat.

ignoring what you just said

growing numb

living under your thumb

hiding my face

on each lap of the race

eating black bread

ignoring what you just said

not knowing

which way the prevailing wind is blowing

but trying to remain glad

with what i once had

and you're looking at me

knowing i want to be free

giving me a frown

while you're chasing me down

so how can i make sense

if i'm always jumping a fence

as other folk are simply grinning

their winter tires spinning

blowing up in smoke

is this some kind of joke?

well, i've had more than my fill

balanced on the edge of a window sill

looking down

looking around

afraid to fall

afraid of the prison wall

growing numb

living under your thumb

hiding my face

on each lap of the race

eating black bread

ignoring what you just said.

Sakharov

"Andrei Sakharov,"

said Tatyana Zaslavskaya,

"was the only one among us who made

no compromises.  For us,

he was a figure of the inner spirit.

Just the bare facts of his life, the way he suffered for all of us,

gave him authority that no one else had.

Without him, we could not begin to rebuild our society

or our selves.

Gorbachev may not have understood it quite that way when

he let Sakharov come home,

but he would understand it eventually."

In his Nobel Prize lecture,

Sakharov said

"Other civilizations, perhaps more successful ones,

may exist an infinite number of times on the preceding

and following pages of the Book of the Universe.

Yet, we should not minimize our sacred endeavors in the world,

where,

like faint gliders in the dark, 

we have emerged for a moment from the nothingness of

unconsciousness 

into material existence.

We must make good the demands of reason

and create a life 

worthy of ourselves

and of the goals we only dimly perceive."

the more you sang

you leaned in close

grabbed the microphone

you knew you could sing and had the tone

but the more you sang

the more i felt alone

lots of tables and chairs

but all i saw were vacant stares

and a hardwood floor

and i kept wanting more

someone like you

when i'm feeling blue

but if you don't want me

i'll need to bury my fondest memory

on the bar room floor with broken dreams

nothing is ever what it seems

i took a last drag on my cigarette

felt the smoke burn in my eyes

i was wearing a disguise

you leaned in close

grabbed the microphone

you knew you could sing and had the tone

but the more you sang

the more i felt alone.

near Katyn, April 1940

in the forest of Goat Hill near Katyn, 

during the month of April, 1940,

no prayer was answered.

The Mountain Eagle ordered it so.

he was doing his Pole dance,

hiding behind a black mustache

trimmed beneath black eyes,

proximate to a black heart.

he had come a long distance

from Tbilisi Spiritual Seminary

and the seamstress mother

whom he rarely visited.

his game was blood,

from others.

and fear,

from others.

and then he died.

during the Mikhail Gorbachev

realizations, 

old graves,

rotting boots,

smashed skulls,

skulls with bullet holes,

lost youth,

destroyed dreams,

all were found in amazing abundance.

history was to be rewritten,

again,

and again.

memory lived.

was the gulag archipelago dismantled

or momentarily lost from sight?

today,

swimming in oil profits and total corruption,

Russia has a new Tsar who is writing

a new chapter.

his millions of peasants watch,

but their windows

are framed inside a mausoleum.