the Soviets -- what the hell  really  they were Soviets then  --  though admittedly are Russian now except for the politics they suffer arent outside the dead Soviet regime or sphere-of-influence  not unlike here in America where we need lots an lots of old white men to die because only death will force them to drop the reins White entitlement placed in their hands which they grip in tight-balled fists

                                                         but thats an aside

I dont want to get too far off my mark an risk losing the thigh-slapper they shared

a hilarious joke they insisted   The Future is certain  The Past is what is unpredictable

I didnt laugh

  

they howled unperturbed

  

I got it I just didnt think it was funny

 

though my discontent my drollness may come from listening to too many political hacks try an reengineer our History

retell stories liberally(its okay when they use the word or set the currency of what or what isnt PC)  liberally apply their spin delete inconvenient facts alter timelines

 

there really isnt much difference between theirs an the Soviets long game

I opted out then utterly confounding them  changed things up an talked about an American boy and his cat 

His dog  they rebuked me  they werent going to have it

No    His cat

they sternly insisted I was incorrect  It is boy an his dog has always been boy an his dog why would boy have cat

(in my best mock-Russian) Mebbe boy does not buy into status quo do what he is told

Mebbe he is bad boy

bushy eyebrows arched shoulders rose slightly  pensively  perhaps in a sly attitude to manipulate or further inquiry

Dog  Cat  Future  Past  

Theyre the same difference  a matter of perspective  a redtailed hawk perched in a treetop two in a bush is worth one
in hand

                If youre clever

the Soviets sighed  they werent happy with me

it seemed they prefer happiness  tortured laughter

as a gesture of good will I offered glasses of vodka believing it might be the way to a Soviets heart  an if not  then to indulge in cold crystal-clear vodka to hold up before any trouble problem or transgression  see if it might help magnify
or elucidate it

Dog   Cat   Future   Past  

                                         Vodka   Happiness

theres really no difference after all  not a speck or scintilla of bloody difference

its all drawn dipped or oozed from the same shimmering well of human experience

  

1428,  Thursday,  14  1. 16

2327,  Thursday,  14 1. 16

sometimes the muffled sound you hear through a closed window at night defies comprehension

incites your courage to turn an leave 

                                                                                                                               

quickens  stuffs your breath

your brave hasty fingers

suddenly arrested

they linger at the sash lock 

                                             linger  hooked  in the handle at the bottom of the casement

the muntins groan uneasily at your tension

  

with the slightest turn you can unlock the window

                                                                                 the slightest lift will open it 

an then you can see

 

there will be nothing between you and it

                                                                  whatever it is

that is out there

mewling

morose

                                        

                whatever it is it

isnt part of the world you inhabited

before the sun went down

transmogrified

 

                          an your only hope when it enters the house

because it will

                                                            

is to unsee it see through it 

                                             utterly unreactive unresponsive unimpressed

                                                                                                                                                Wau Wauuh   

Wauwhamp    

                     slithers 

                                                                                                                                      

the square tiles on the floor behind it are smeared stained with earth  tracked with soot spore black ruined leaves spurned moss slivered with greyspeckled decay   an a smell that thickens an adheres to the back of your throat

precipitates your choking retching                                                 

                                                        bile an snotgreen phlegm

                                                                                                                              slithers    past

your unseeing

youve done well

an slaughters the rest of the household

untipped                                                                                                                                                   

                by the horrid sound breath outside

the softened glaring glass

0055,  Thursday,  14  1. 16

1346,  Thursday,  14 1. 16