Garden Parkway YMCA
Dallas, Texas
22 November 1963

Darling Sophie,

Could it be only two months since I let your fingers slip from my hand as that train departed Voronezh station? I fear that this trip was a great mistake. . . .

The boat sailed from Sevastopol as scheduled. Just two days and we were through the Bosporus/Dardanelles and into the incredibly blue Aegean and the Mediterranean. On September 27 we passed Gibraltar and started the long haul across the Atlantic. The work was not demanding though the ship was quite ***** and not really very pleasant.

We docked at Houston in the state of Texas on October 9. Defecting was surprisingly easy. There was supposed to be work in Dallas so I walked/hitch-hiked here last month. But I have not been able to find any work.

The people here, though friendly, are coarse and brash. The stores overflow with televisions, record players, mink coats, but there are many very poor people here too...

The great American leader, Kennedy, was shot and killed today, driving in his open-topped car along the streets of this very city.

My money is gone; my strength, exhausted. How blithely I left you and Russia behind! I feel my lips brushing the tiny hairs on the back of your neck, your ******* swelling. . . . Sophie! May you know great happiness and love! I only ask that in the spring when you visit Krymskaya Pond, that you remember how we knelt there, how I whispered in your ear there, when the air is filled with the scent of its cherry trees that you remember what we felt there. . . .

  Yours, always,    Nickolay

there are noises,
voices
out there that
(i dont)
think really are; deranged impressions,
truth defecting from common knowledge.
is this simply a lack of dreaming?
or is reality             on the cusp of our heels?
                     blur
                            ring

It hurts when i breathe
It burns when i see
All of me-

Ashes scattered to the sea

No matter the pattern
You wear on your sleeve
I fall down dead
And wake relieved

Ashes, ashes
It's all ******* ashes

this house we've built,
The bodies we put inside,
Nothing stays alive

This feeling of godly emptiness
Will pass

The feeling of my hand on your back
Wont last

The past is here
Along with the next
Phrase i speak
Between nicotine therapy

The future is here
With the king and queen
To let loose a vermouth mixed
Drink of the unseen

The obscene lingers meaninglessly
With the scene

With the invisible host,
The holy ghost

The most i could ask
Is to feel the ground beneath my feet
Once more

To unlock familiar doors
In familiar places

And to greet familiar faces

I dont know you yet
But i knew you before

I dont know you yet
But i love you all the more,

For our cause and effect
Is defecting to the raw rocks
And wrecks
On the distant shore

Tell me once more,

Did i meet you just now
Or do i remember you from before?

Under the cover of night
A knight and a long knife
Ready to stick ready to slice
He looks mad tonight...  

The darkness is deep.
And black,
Black Like the lac sittin out front.
The notion of movin’ inconspicuous is masked
With the shadow of guilt
Swallowing any spark of light
Threatening to dissolve the lust over darkness
Projected by a mind shrouded in grey space.

So he sits low.
Eyes shaded by his fro.
He's patient.
An attribute many deems worthless,
He basks in its tide,
It washes over him with powerful waves of humility
Cleansing any possibility of being replicated.
Never in this life time.

Each step he takes is a movement in the composition of time.
Its flow is powerful but only under a benign face.
The dynamic is only determined after an attempt to cross him.
His mission is calling,

It has led him to this darkness.
The forests of skeletons
Infesting the closet space of his mind only confuses.  
He has realized his afflictions.
Seemingly they are lost in the black.
He watches the politics he has been sent to stop.
It’s disgusting.
But his mission is clear.

The path to success is not.
The path he has chosen is unique.
It has led him into the belly of the beast.
His intel was correct.
His approach is dangerous.
The chance of defecting is high, but he's betting on his will.
As his age grows so does his determination.
With every second passed he stands more ready.

And as the darkness consumes more of all he has built,
And as emotions of despair, pain, embarrassment, loneliness, and worry
weigh down his proud shoulders,
a peculiar spasm of creation happens.

He finds something.
He finds...
Well, he finds himself.
Every ounce of his frail, unmolested, un-influenced self,
Before he discovered lies, and suffered cries,
Before time played its tricks and stole his youth,
Before he started prayin’ for a direction to sin,
Before he discovered his truth.

Now he contemplates.
It’s never too late. He can change.
But His mission stays the same.
After all that is why he searches the dark.
To improve his third eye.
To absolve the blind.
He will not achieve perfection
but the end of his mission will come.
Remember he walks through time it does not move him.
Its blakops, the subconscious thought.

once all my hope was lost
I realized it was never even there
just an intangible creation of my psyche
formed to stabilize my sanity
preventing me to break down over not having what the hope is there for

it filled me up deeply and widely
dissolving everything that used to be there and defecting a massive hole with it's departure
burning away at the rest of my insides
as if I'd downed a liter of hydrochloride acid

I try to fill up the gap
But everyone that I try to let in unintentionally corrodes in the acid
I look up to the man that instilled hope on this world
I beg him to take away the emptiness
But how can someone that doesn't exist take away something that isn't there?

you have laughed
And you have cried
While You were always watching
And You had lived
And You had died
Before we were but hatchlings
And You were here
While you were there
Always fiercely protecting
And You by you
I learn the love
That keeps me from defecting

I am awed by
the forest green
glowing sheen
of spring’s clean
reflecting force,
as I am defecting
before the door
slams shut
on my creative luck.

I can overdo it,
get convoluted
till my rhymes
become diluted,
and my thoughts
become polluted
with alien intentions.

Swearing I am
too sophisticated
for those who
are frustrated
when they read me,
but they can
see through
the tricky ****
I try to do.

If it is
a zero-sum game
then I lose,
when I choose
to slowdown
and work through
the background noises
everyone else
forget to listen to.

In fact, I
overestimate,
exaggerate,
to inflate a debate,
that does not
exist in this place,
to try and say
something worth
expressing in
a beautiful verse.

But I am just
playing with words,
and they do not
love or need me,
nor does my
poetry or
my society,
both will survive
without me.

How can you be
so clueless?
of a snake
curled up your leg?
I'm not gonna lie
it's defecting your eyes
what you saw
was a faux
of a fake
prince persia's Gawk