Archive for the ‘Dom Knigi’ Category

Devushka s Knigoy_ Almeida Junior

Poetic prose beats

prosaic poetry.


(… Definitely!)


(To be continued…)









I walk in and around the bookstore…

So many books.

So many beautiful, banal, informative, weird and wonderful ideas committed to print.

But there’s a certain decadence in the printed form, unnecessary bulk, ostentatiousness, eye-catching covers, books full of pages but no real substance.

Decadence too in the exclusion of others (people, places, ideas, possibilities) …

Who decides?

Who decides what is “right”,

what is fit for publication?

Who’s ideas survive?

Who’s ideas die?

So many books,

shelves and minds overloaded.

So many books,

and yet so many are missing.









but what isn’t, in this life,

this fallen physical realm?

You read and you listen,

you try to pay attention,

but there are so many other demands,

at best you’re confused,

and you barely scratch the surface,

but there,

right there,

in the far corner of your consciousness,

there’s an iota of enlightenment,

a light flickering, a tiny flame,

fanned by a gentle word remembered.

In or out of context,

words matter…


amongst the clutter.




Outside, I approached the car.

Inside, he watched carefully.

Slowly, he wound the window down.

I could hear Nautilus Pompilius playing,

one track transitioned into another,

a homemade cassette.

I smiled inwardly.

I knew we would have something to talk about.




I dreamt I was someone else,

or maybe myself, in another time and place.

I was deep in conversation about the merits of the USSR approach.

“USSR approach to what? Global politics, internal economy, sporting success?” I wondered, wordlessly.

Meandering through neural pathways,

the answer formed like the wind crying






Welcome to 1986.




Define dream.

Define reality.

Somewhere in New York City,

on a TV set,

in a room,

a state of mind,

beyond Brighton Beach…



a grandiose statement was made

about destiny shaking hands with history.

… Really?

Like, wow!

And, how…

And, this production was brought to you by the ghosts of Leni Riefenstahl and Rosa Luxemburg.

Read, kids, read, believe and intercede!


I struggle through the days,

to get to the nights,

so that I can drink beer,

get naked,

get… well, I’m always introspective,

and justifiably sleep.

Desperate attempt to find


numb bliss.

Such is life these days,

for as long as I remember,

I need to escape the bondage of society.


It is time, as they say in the classics,

to let my girls go free.


Time and place, bending the prisms, I say some strange things, open to misunderstanding. Society doesn’t like subversion and dissent, even inspired promptings of the Holy are subject to arrest.

Don’t you fear the gulag? The things I’ve seen and heard…

Shit, no, I’ve seen “Oz”, I fear America!


When you don’t like the name you were given,

or the role assigned by “fate”,



when the time is apt

(new wave, vanguard rides),

you can choose your own path,

within the radical system,

and be

a functionary,

anonymous to the masses

(now, allow yourself a self-satisfied smile),

part of the new ruling class,

a righteous cog,

essential pillar,



I have a soulmate.

I had a soulmate?

I remember the beautiful years and days when we were close.

Poetic and sublime, words don’t suffice.




Then time and people, situations and circumstance,

messed things up,

sullied and discordant,

and an awkward, spasmodic communiqué

became our way.

Tomorrow is her Birthday

and I want to give her my all,

to tell her I love her, madly and deeply,

but there is a distance and a barrier,

so all I can do is give her a few words.

Insufficient and frustrating.

Such is life,


C’est la vie,

fucked and pained.