Archive for March, 2017

He gave me some vodka

and gherkin, to help the medicine go down.

He waited patiently then asked me my opinion on Progressive Jews.

I raised my eyebrows.

“Be candid,” he said.

“Progressive Jews?… Oh you mean the Jews that neither God nor Andropov can stand!”

He laughed.





I dreamt (well, I think it was a dream),

one night or day,

that “they” asked me to negotiate

Mid-East peace,

the epitome of deal-brokering,

the ultimate legacy maker,

the secular holy grail, so as to speak.


Why not?

So, I tried, as others have, and failed.


My conclusion: the belligerents maintain the conflict, so as to validate themselves and, importantly, to keep revisiting 5-star hotels in relatively pristine European cities…

where nice prostitutes remember their names.




The next few days passed,

lost, gone,

as if in a daze,

I could offer no resistance,

I went with the flow,

an everyday Joe.

Sluggishly absorbing death.




I woke up in my cell.

I had the feeling I’d been drugged.

My memory was hazy

but I knew I’d been violated,

played with,



I felt tension increase in my neck and shoulders,

bona fide knots,


I felt panic.

I didn’t have to read or absorb half of the dossier

to realize the implications.

“Боже!” involuntarily I exclaimed and took another drink.

“Indeed,” said the man, smiling thinly.

“Why are you letting me read this?” I tried to keep my breathing steady.

“Why does not matter, your opinion please.”




I took a sip.


It had been some time.

It bit.

I shook my head and tried to gather my thoughts,

focus on the printed words.

Heavy stuff, facts and figures, strategy and analysis.

In my time inside I’d grown unaccustomed to academic speak, bureaucratic dissemination.

It took some digesting.

And indigestion.




I was led to a closed door.

The guard knocked.

“Enter!” I was directed, as the guard stood aside.

The man behind the desk motioned for me to sit in the chair opposite.

He slid a small glass with clear liquid and a dossier towards me.

“Please, drink, dear colleague.”

I raised my eyebrows.

He continued: “Given your background and expertise, I’d be interested to know what you think of this information. Naturally, it cannot leave this room, any of it, in *any* sense. Scan it for a few minutes, and give me your honest impressions.”

I tried to gage if he was serious.

His nod implied apparently so.

He gestured with his hand, a regal kind of beckoning, commence.





and despite my improved mood,

my prayer wasn’t answered immediately.

Rather, a pair of satan’s minions paid me a visit.

They came to my cell and gave me two options,

equally loathsome.

How could I reply?

Ah, yes,

I see…


You learn pretty quickly

(with a gun to your head).




Alone in my cell, I prayed.

Soul sunk, I mumbled,

trying to believe,

but feeling despair.

And nothing else.

And no one.

And hopeless.

Empty prayer.

Until something within told me to be ardent,



Very well…

I gulped and said, with all I could muster:

“Fuck you devil!”


A beautiful prayer.

At once,

confidence and clarity returned to my being.








in the hash light

of the dark side of the Moon.

My beautiful swan-like neck

is of little effect.