podseti me kako radiš očima ono
dok sediš na šolji
podseti me molim te

slobodan sam dva dana
ipak
moja je soba čistija od tvog tavana

čak šta više
pićemo iz čaša
čistih

imam sve
a nije užeglo
dođi bela
da vodimo ljubav
da jedemo smoki
pijemo pivo
dođi i
samo još ovaj put
okupaj se

Te noći,
Tošić Milorad se prenerazio
ugledavši ispred sebe
Tošić Milorada,
skarednu onomatopeju svoga bivstva.
Iz očiju joj iskočiše
dva sablasna, zubata penisa,
pa samo sikću.
Cele su noći nešto izvoljevali,
ovi nakaradni isprdci bolesne mašte
nesrećnog čoveka,
te daj piće,
te daj hranu,
te daj cigare,
a negde,
tik pred zoru, jedan upita Tošić Milorada :
- Jel ti stig’o kupus ?

he drats and tolchocks till he viddies the
malenky merzky grazhny grazzy nazz
and shives from guttiwuts to gulliver
the poogly plenny all razrez razrez

tree cheenas itty up to govoreet
with dva vecks when the bolshy britva's done
one slooshies slovos without shilarny
the other skorry sobirats each one

prestoopniks plot, chelloveck and ptitsa
crast dva nozhes, tolchock the collocol
the ptitsa privodeets pyahnitsas
with krovvy on her rookers after all

glazzy for glazzy, zooby for zooby
to oobivat prestoopniks nadmenny
the rozz becomes so deep steeped in krovvy
he goes o'er a prestoopnik, a plenny

the zheena's sneeting cheesting nachinats
jeezny and krovvy are so dorogoy
a veck can kopet but cannot kupet
to crast brings britva, bitva, doubtful joy

1.

Stuffed men who never made a single day
Of training make brave speeches on this day

Surely each one of them has his reward -

A government SUV
And bodyguards
And a household staff
And a clean, dry place to sleep
And an income
And medical care
And a pension
And a book deal
And a library
And maybe an eternal flame

2.

And the nation’s enlisted daughters and sons
Who sweat among the rocks, not on the golf course

Have their reward from a grateful nation -

Taking cover behind a blown-up Hummer
They are the bodyguards
They dig holes in the rocks and sand
MREs contracted by the lowest brother-in-law bidder
They stand-to all night under fire
They are paid something less than the president’s special, um, assistant
They will be ignored by the DVA
Their eternal flame is the memory of a death-burnt friend
They are dismissed as millennials and snowflakes
          By the Keyboard Kommandos who learned about war
          Just like our stuffed men in Washington
          By watching Patton over and over

The stuffed men bray every hollow cliché,
But this is what the stuffed men really say:

“Thank you for your service; now shut up and go away
Until we want another photo-op on Remembrance Day”

žalio se sudbi svojoj
klempavi klempo
a ne vidi
da je ušima
dva sunca zaklonio
creva rasuo po polju
da nahrani
gladno mu srce
ne čuje on siromah grmljavinu
ušima velikim svojim
a hteo bi rosom gorkom
mnoga jutra
pelinom
slatke sokove tvoje

Dear Anonymous Google Accuser:

Thank you for your note, the contents of which sound much like the block warden’s caution (“Your attitude is noticed, comrade.”) to Yuri in the film version of Doctor Zhivago.

I have re-read the column, which I wrote nine years ago, and find nothing offensive in it (although it is rather puerile), nor do you detail exactly what is offensive in it and why I should be sanctioned. You are being Kafka-esque, and I say this as someone who has read Kafka: you do not tell me what offense I have purportedly committed nor do you face me with an accuser. You do not even face me with you, for you do not give your name. You employ the passive voice in referring to an “Adult Content policy” and to “Community Guidelines,” which sound like something from an episode of Patrick McGoohan’s The Prisoner: “The Committee won’t like this, Number Six.”

Google (and one could find “google” offensive, with its history of mocking someone’s physical characteristics) is a private company, and so is free to publish or not publish, as is only right.  And I am free to pity Google for moral, ethical, and literary cowardice.

But you say that I am insensitive.

I was raised in situational poverty, barely graduated from high school, and spent 18 months in Viet-Nam. Upon returning to the USA (with life-long skin cancer which the DVA denies) I worked straight nights (double shifts on weekends) as an ambulance driver and later an LVN to put myself through university. I taught for almost forty years in public school, community college, and university as an adjunct instructor of no status whatsoever. In retirement I volunteered with our local school’s reading program until the Covid ended that, and I still volunteer with the lads at the local prison. I volunteer in community cleanup after our hurricanes (tho’ I’m getting a little old for that). I’ve worked hard all my life, paid my taxes, paid off my house at age 70, receive only half of my Social Security because of some vague law, and never gamed the system. Indeed, I would say that the system has gamed me.

But you say that I am insensitive.

In Viet-Nam, by the way, I was not the shooter; I was the shootee. I served as a Navy Corpsman in the ICU at the Station Hospital in DaNang, in the outpatient clinic at Camp Tien Sha in DaNang, and finally at Moc Hoa on the Cambodian border. Several hundred people, mostly young Americans, but also ARVN, VC, NVA, Vietnamese civilians, and Cambodian civilians survived because I was there for them.

But you say than I am insensitive.

And was all of this so that some frightened committee of anonymous inquisitors staring at an Orwellian telescreen or a Mordor-ish Palantir could find an innocuous scribble insensitive?

Pffffft.

Sincerely,

Lawrence Hall

...Ali četvrti deo, pod nazivom "O čovekovom robovanju", posvećen je drugom delu čovekove prirode – strastima.
Sa strastima se sve komplikuje. Ali baz njih ništa ne vredi.
To je ono kad razum kaže "ne" – ali uzalud.
Kad imate osećaj da srljate u neminovnu propast, ali ne možete ništa da sprečite.
Mnogo je greha, bola i zla na tom putu, mnogo je povređenih i nesrećnih.
Ljubav? Da li ljubav iskupljuje? Da li se možete opravdati ljubavlju, makar pred svojom savešću?
KOS je priča o nemogućoj i nedopustivoj ljubavi.
Naravno, sve ima svoju drugu stranu. Opravdanja su kratkog dometa, i ne kažem da ne treba suditi. Ne kažem ni da treba oprostiti.
U pozorištu, u drami, jednostavno imate tu privilegiju da ne morate zauzeti konačan stav. Možete se samo prepustiti tom svima poznatom osećaju kad Vas osećanja snažno vuku u vrtlog iz kojeg nema izlaza. Kad Vas najdublji unutrašnji osećaj istovremeno svom snagom vuče u dva suprotna smera.
Konačno, svi smo tu, na istom mestu, svi smo zajedno uhvaćeni u istu klopku sadašnjosti, zaglavljeni u istom tesnacu stvarnosti, sa svojim okrutnim žudnjama, i svojim smešnim nemogućim snovima.
KOS je priča o ljubavi koja je otišla u nemogućem smeru, a JESENJA SONATA je pričao o uzaludnoj ljubavi. Izuzetnost, slava i uspeh često ne donesu sreću. Naprotiv: čak i obična svakodnevno neophodna ljudska toplina može postati nedostupna i nedohvatljiva. Možete biti sasvim drago i pristojno ljudsko biće. Konačno, ima li iko pravo da zahteva više od nas? I možete imati sasvim ljudska topla osećanja vezanosti za nekoga, i želeti mu sreću, i raditi sve što je u Vašoj moći. I onda ćete se neminovno susresti sa saznanjem koliko je sve to beznadežno nedovoljno, i kako nikad nećete uspeti da onome ko Vam je sve, Vi budete makar nešto...
Suočiti se sa izvesnošću da je sve uzalud, i da nikad ništa neće biti dovoljno, a pri tom ne podleći gorčini, osvetoljubivosti ni pakosti, nego ostati jednostavna, topla i susretljiva ljudska priroda – to je neprimetna uzvišenost neprimetnog malog čoveka.
A niko od nas nije dovoljno velik da bi imao pravo na bezdušnost.
Zato ponavljam, ne kažem da ne treba suditi, ne kažem da se mora oprostiti. Samo preporučujem da bez kalkulacija zaronimo u te uzburkane vode ljudskih osećanja, i da prepoznamo sebe u drugom i drugog u sebi.
Neće škoditi, a možda poneko od nas stvarno postane bolji, veći i lepši iznutra.

convened
in my living room
summoned to a setcat
to decide by voulbee or fratricide
the next Father of Thieves.

Blahznivee Semyon rises up
like a winter sun over the steppe
peels off his sable coat and hat
he garnishes round after round of applause
for his tattooist's magnificent skill,
and the number of skulls etched in his skin
one skull for every ****.

Arkady the Krahsnee comes to the front
draws a cross across his chest,
wipes caviar from his pickled lips
sheds his necklace of bloated tongues ripped
from the mouths of informants who sing
and with a halo of bicycle chain whirling overhead
steps drunkenly into the ring

The display turns black
chairs are pushed back
***** in every hand.
The soldiers prepare
with a toast and a prayer
and a drop of blood from each man.

Now squaring off
Dva Rusahky:
a fat taloostee,
the other slim-tenki
wade into the fray:

bez nervee, t-shirts, boatkee or fear
they destroy my hanging chandelier
their bratvas stand around and cheer
pass round smokes and mugs of beer.

Černobog’s hammer sits
inside a chalk line circle
like an *******
waiting for a fist.
Black stars collide
shoulders knees torsos
wheel thrown into ****** slabs
hole punched and wire cut
falling on cigarette butts
nicotine thumbs empty eye sockets
vitreous runs and pools
seeps into screaming mouths
through mangled cheeks.

Teeth litter my rug
like chiclets in berry jam.

Here's a finger,
make a splinter
wounds are washed
in chilled Żubrówka.

Semyon lifts the hammer, the winner
a new skull in his flesh, still wet
when he buys my silence
with a Russian dinner
and a round of Russian roulette.