Putin's politics is akin to the inside-joke of Russian hospitality:
Piss in the samovar then serve tea to your guests.
Move rack to lowest position,
Set to three seventy-five.
Pour in one and a third cups water,
Sprinkle egg whites (package A),
Blend on LOW till moist.
Beat on high (but remain patient)
Stiff peaks will form when gently
Dunking a spatula into your batter
(Be sure beater is AT REST before checking).
Sprinkle in cake flour (package B)
A little at a time on LOWEST setting
(Don’t forget to scrape the bottom and edges).
Pour batter into your ungreased tube pan,
Cut through batter gently with a butter knife
In a circular motion
To eliminate air bubbles.
Bake for at least thirty minutes
Or until top crust is golden brown
(Ovens vary so keep your eye on it at all times).
Cool by hanging tube pan upside down on bottle,
Loosen by making up and down strokes with spatula or knife.
Gently remove your cake.
Devised by Cosmic Boss
Sourced by parents
Aided by obstetrician
Nursed by pediatrician
Nurtured by nutritionist
Counseled by sexologist
Treated by orthopedist
Stressed by physiotherapist
Directed by dietician
Nudged by nephrologist
Nerved by neurologist
Contained by cardiologist
Consoled by psychologist
Interspersed by dentist,
Sighted by ophthalmist
Conditioned by physiology
Terminated by mortuary
The inexorable Lifeline Express
Of hospitalized hospitality
the words enter through the mind
and it was that word which the Lord
did decree, thus splitting apart atoms
was the universe created in an instant.
suppose for one more second that truth
and all things disappear now as to sooth.
dreams, sights, sounds, smells, feelings
come and go with the time of day and night
passing by the thoughts of beings interrupting
whatever it is that is our natural state of being
what is it like to change the world?
what is it like to be a grain of sand?
what is it like to be anything at all?
more callous and august than you
can ever imagine in a dream too
before you wake up and forget
that it's all over already now.
In the West I learned western hospitality
Free spirit, free drugs, more booze, more love
If you can remember your problem your doing it wrong
But if you forget your responsibilities you're not worth much
Party everyday pretend you don't understand the methods of your madness
Walk the streets half naked in half a foot of snow
Party, study, party, study
party, party, party
repent and once it strikes midnight start again.
In the North I learned Northern hospitality
It's called minding your business
It's called I have to get somewhere
If you have a question you also have a smart phone
It's not my job to tell you the norm.
You'll figure it out
I learned to walk fast, speak briskly and tell everyone to mind their own business
In the South I learned Southern hospitality
It's where people talk nice to your face and dirty behind your back
It's where the idea of ownership has stemmed way before the monogram
It's where if they only have two faces they are genuine and where they'll feed you fresh apple pie
filled with arsenic
Where you can trust your neighbor only as far as you can throw them
Where everyone's a little racist, a little homophobic, a little god-fearing
In the South I learned
I was born and raised in Denver, Colorado.
Currently I reside in North Carolina.
You have to laugh a little at yourself when you've made so many attempts
to appear calm and strong, proficient and valuable.
No one knows
about the self-help revolution's expansion on your bookshelf,
the super soul Sundays, the power poses, and happiness
exercises you commit to mentally.
You try so hard to hide your flaws and bad behavior.
It feels so revealing to go out with naked face.
You talk alot about Jesus being your savior,
there's a desire deep down to feel strentghened
and touched and feel loved like that
but for some reason you feel like a phony
thus underserving. Even though
when someone gives you a big tip in East Texas
you kinda ponder if
looking out for you.
You asked me once why I felt safe with you
The answer is simple, really;
you speak to me sweeter
than the southern twang
of lightly painted china cups
twinkling with an old tonic
your great grandmother grew up with -
more sugar than ice
and the chime of silver spoons
stirring away low hanging sky
in a lazy afternoon haze.
You speak to me with the comfort
of a tea cup
cradled by the saucer
lips meeting gently against each other
so as not to scrape a scar against the fragile cheek
of either companion
Sometimes you even whisper
with the rattles of old age
chiming away at the edges
of sweet forgotten bliss -
You, darling, speak to me sweeter
than any grain of sugar
that rubbed me raw.