My friend's Mother sent me a pair of sneakers from America
last summer. White sneakers with red laces.
She is living and working in NYC
She is from a poor, poor country.
And when I put on my white senakers with red  laces
I imagine I'm walking in NYC
To clarify, I'm standing  on NYC
To clarify,  I put on NYC
I know it would make Eduard Limonov happy
but I'm not Edichka,
it's me, Giorgi.

David Chikhladze told me
NYC is not America
NYC is a dream of suiciders
but I trust in maps
more than David.

Now, writing this poem
I have my red laced white sneakers on
I always  put them on, when I read or translate
Allen Ginsberg's poems.
Give me your ear NEW-YORK
I want to tell you something.

Is was a long ride home.

We were sober.
Legal, maybe the best way to describe it.

But a 185 kilometer drive,
The morning after,
On snowy roads
Will test you at the core.

It wasn't the *** with other people.
She'd given a ******* to an eighteen year old,
I'd ended up drunk and flaccid,
With my head between the legs of a lady from New York City,
And *******,
Jesus christ, *******
Were never a point of contention between us.

God has one gift and we'd never been stingy, jealous,
Small minded control freaks or emotional kamikaze suiciders,
Dive bombing the happiness out of each other,
No way.
Nor were we myopic work slaves jacking off to the next tech treat,
Nor were we stingy uptight ***** faces,
Trading in the allusion of human perfection.
No way.
We knew love and we knew life and we knew the power of new.

But to say Jimi Hendrix wasn't the greatest axe player to ever trip.
**** man, that just couldn't stand.
So we listened, the windows shaking,
The seething poison of artistic disagreement,
Like nerve gas, art is serious ****, you feel me?

All Along the Watchtower, Hey Joe, Crosstown, Voodoo Child, Angel...

Some **** just won't stand

You dig?

The trees bare themselves for winter.

While we barricade.

It's time for the ***** snow and the drippy nose.
Stressful dinners
                 and
                        hand-me-down clothes.

Thanksgiving house-fires
                          and
                                 Christmas suiciders.

So bundle up!
And arm yourself with holiday cheer.
                                         Because we'll be lucky to make it this year.