chapter 3
HUFFINGTON
09.23.12
poem
together’s called the Nimble Neurons. Simple stimulation with
the horseshoe, hard. The Presbyterian (head) Master
got so angry that he cast dung about him, rang the orthodox bell,
hid the weapon in the tall grass of long-term mnemonics,
left it there to find. Fend for yourself, my boy, who called him friend.
IV
Picks up the red: Koba Steel here. . . . (No, not a CEO.)
So stop and think. You’re at a high point in telephonic history.
He asks you now about your friend. Wants to know
is he the Big One. For a moment you are overcome by envy.
Iosif the Georgian – Koba, Mr. Steel – thinks your
friend and rival maybe is the Big One. He’s waiting for your
answer on the phone. Horseshoe, you know I don’t . . .
So think again. You’re having dinner with some friends
And Джугашвили (-shvili is the suffix meaning child)
telephones and asks you is your rival really great.
It isn’t Harry Truman on the line, not General Eisenhower,
not even J. Edger Hoover. It’s the Ossetian, the herd of sheep.
Yet another name is сталь, suffix -ин You’ve heard of sheep,
but not from Georgia. (Georgia doesn’t border Florida.)
He takes an avid interest in the welfare of the motherland’s bards.
Three times blessed is one who puts a name in song.
Boris Leonidovich, for example.
He says, I think you liked the summer camp we sent you to.
We gave you a dacha all your own; not a day, not an hour
did you spend like some Denisovich. You know. You’re grateful,
But you’ve got these dinner guests. Koba, we will have