The A-Bomb and Two Blonde Bombshells

Ivan was a terrorist; not a freedom fighter, or a religious fanatic, but a fanatic—his cause was something more difficult to define. He served the Soviet State, and when governments changed, he served the new one. His friends spent 50 percent of their time talking about politics, even though they didn’t know what they were talking about. Ivan didn’t know much about politics, but he knew enough about people to understand when their conversations were bullshit. Recently, he had had enough. It was all shit; 50 percent, and the other 50 percent. Most guys who realize their friends are useless, get new friends, or if they can’t pick and choose new friends, they spend time alone. Unfortunately, Ivan got new friends and they were the same. It could be him; he was the common denominator, but doing math at this time in his life seemed futile. He had tried to change, and when that didn’t work, he realized, he would need to change the world. Governments change, but they stay the same. It’s only a matter of time before the people in-charge think they know better than you. They had something wrong with them. They wanted to mold and shape the world to make it a better place, without the fundamental knowledge, that it can’t be better. I guess it helps to come from the bottom, and fail. Failure teaches a man that the struggle for supremacy is futile. The things that matter have nothing to do with ideals, and everything to do with style; how one dresses, how one acts, how one interacts with women, how one handles an out-of-control car, and an out-of-control country.

Ivan felt better about himself with two blonde bombshells under each arm, walking out of the abandoned Soviet Building. They believed he was their Comrade Colonel, and they would do anything for him. Forget political power; forget the respect of your colleagues; all a man needs are two naive blonde bombshells who respect him. His suitcases were in the trunk. His girls were in the backseat. He drove carefully. Ivan did not want to get into a wreck. He didn’t have anything against the every-man who was only trying to survive, and steal a crumb of the world for himself before he died— sad really. Most guys that snap, don’t have a plan. A man is only as good as his plan. Ivan was on a mission for the first time in 30 years. He had a purpose now, driving through traffic, waiting for cars, that took longer than they needed to, to move. He wanted the whole world, and nothing else, and when a man is denied what he wants, he will do one of three things; he will lay down and quit, run in place, and hope he gets somewhere, or attack the people who started the race in the first place. There was the airport. The girls were so gorgeous. All he could find were two extra small blue jumpsuits, that wouldn’t quite zip-up in the middle. Husbands and boyfriends in the airport, couldn’t take their eyes off him and his girls. He was doing something obscene, just by existing, and it felt good to be obscene. To have that kind of power, not even celebrities enjoy; well, Hugh Heffner, but Ivan was the real deal, and rather than getting old, and trying to keep-up his image, he was going out of this world, on his own terms.

He checked 6-suitcases. The scanner picked-up women’s underwear, some illegal toys that were banned in the old Soviet Union, and some detective stories. Nothing suspicious, unless you were a believer in one of the Abrahamic faiths, and even then, the times were lenient. A man could get away with just about anything. These suitcases were scanner-proof. Soviet Spies had worked on them, right before the collapse of the Union, so they registered nothing but women’s undergarments. The flight to the USA and the Eastern Sea Board made Ivan dizzy at 40 thousand feet. Number 1, grabbed his shirt sleeve, and walked to the restroom like a cat. Ivan followed her like a dog. By the time they landed, he was barely breathing; his life force had left him, but it was worth it, to be half-alive. The ballet school wasn’t far. Alexi had chartered a limo, and when the plane landed, four ballet dancers were waiting for him. When Ivan got inside, one of the dancers spoke…

“What can we do to relax you?”

“No need…” Ivan fell asleep, collapsed really, and when he woke up at the studio, Alexi smiled; their plan was 50 percent effective, waiting on the next 50. Ivan and Alexi were not talkers. They did not talk about women. They did not get angry about politics. They did things. They put their dent in the system.

To be continued…

Frozen Female Soviet Spies

It was a tall black building, weathered by war, so that silver flecks of steel showed, like gray hairs on a distinguished face. Ivan, took the elevator to the tenth floor, even though, there were only nine registered in blinking yellow lights, showing the numbers, as each floor zoomed by in the elevator. This was building 348, declassified after the Soviet Union fell, but nobody knew its real secrets, not among the living, anyway. And Ivan had spent years trying to get a janitorial post in his old building where he had been a Colonel. He missed being called, Comrade Colonel. One government crumbles, and he found himself at the bottom of the heap.

His nephew was running a ballet school in Florida. The States were decadent. He wondered about his nephew, and why he wanted to dress-up in tights and teach girls all day, but when he called Alexi on the phone, he understood. Legs were twirling above doll faces, as Alexi stretch them out, criticizing them for eating too much. In the shadow years, there was no time for beauty; beauty was for seduction; and seduction was for espionage and murder. Good for Alexi, Ivan thought. He wondered if his plan was going to work. Surely, the government shut this project down when the iron curtain fell, but there were too many lose ends to tie-up, perfectly—and much was forgotten.

The elevator stopped, but the doors didn’t open. A threatening voice came-over the intercom. Punch in your 9-digit access code, and say your name and rank. Ivan pulled the faded card from his pocket; it had been over 30 years since he used it. He held his breath while he punched the numbers.

“Your Name!”

“Ivan Vasilevski, head of Spy Division X.”

“Welcome, Comrade Colonel.”

Ivan exhaled. Why did he feel he needed a cigarette? That’s right. He smoked two packs a day, on the 10th floor during the cold war.

The steel doors opened and Ivan walked inside. It was like stepping into a museum. Nothing had changed. There were AK-47s on the walls, and 40-year-old computers lined the global grid in the center of the room. Everything was turned off. Ivan knew better than to turn it on. A short circuit, and the guidance systems on lost satellites would make the cold war, hot. Besides, he knew what he was after. He past the vault. There was money in there, loads of it, completely useless, but what he was after was flesh and blood. Ivan walked to the wall and pressed a black screen. Nothing happened. Then the wall collapsed, revealing a room, still cold, colder than he remembered. That’s right, he wore artic clothes when he visited.

There were Russian girls, two of them, indoctrinated at birth, hooked up to the soviet literature plugged inside their brains. They were frozen in ice, ice cold. Ivan felt lust in his fingertips, as he pressed the button to warm their perfectly preserved bodies. The steam started to fog the test-tubes they were floating in. Their naked skin brushed up against the glass. Ivan searched the room for clothes, but he couldn’t find any. The water started boiling. He had to let them out before they got burned. Where was that button, to drain the tanks? He found it, and pressed it. Warm water washed out onto the tiled floor. They swam like fishes, cold, and perky, to his feet, and Ivan spoke to them; they immediately stood at attention—their bodies tight, and alert.

“Permission to speak, Comrade Colonel?”

“Permission, Number 1.”

“Why are you dressed in a grey jumpsuit?”

“We have to take a flight to Florida.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

Ivan looked at them without lust. The mission was in his mind. They could get inside any man, inside any government, which meant he could stop scrubbing toilets and cleaning floors. They would do anything for him. The cold war never ended; he was about to make it hot!

To be continued…

Be Careful What You Give Away

We are all moving towards something

if you sit really quiet-like

you can feel a pull

to do something

it’s an urge

for meaning


an unconscious



I’ve talked to so many young guys

and a few high-powered women

the guys all want to get laid

or get married

and then get laid

they have good jobs

but they want better jobs

so, they can get laid.

I’ve always wanted freedom

the high-powered job

is not freedom

your time, energy, and above all…

your mind

are consumed with tasks


and not smiled on.

You might be able to afford the cars, and the women

but the women

will be high-powered—

a social status trap

far away

from your fantasy

of who you want to be

it only takes a couple of years

to put on weight

and have a mind

that is not your own

it thinks about the job

it thinks about what other people have

it wonders why it never became

sexy, cool, and confident in the world

I have this idea

that has never worked

it’s a theory, I might give my life to

but it has madness in it

Rather than giving my mind to a job description

that’s too boring to read through

or a high-powered woman

who will insist, we climb higher

I’ll try to make my fantasies

a reality

by doing NOTHING.

If one indulges their desire

they lose their desire

if one indulges their appetite

they lose their appetite

if one trades their life for more

they will lose it

Can the fantasies inside my mind

make me who I want to be?

And what if I wait on ambition

listening to ambitious minds


about promotions

and how much money they will make an hour

“If I could just get that job, my life would be sorted out…” I heard someone say, yesterday.

I have this theory

that the man who holds himself together

with his own mind

and doesn’t let anything slip out

will become greater

each day

it’s not to be gambled or sold

You can’t put a price on this value

and the world envies what it can’t have

You become a leader

with exceptional power


by those who would offer you a better position

when you say “NO”

when you say “NO”

when you say “NO”

there is no better way

to get closer to God.

Pretend People Need REAL Philosophy

Most of us are pretending

to be,

acting, really!

It’s okay to act

but once you’ve tried-on several people

who aren’t you

your character becomes stale

a multiple personality

without the craziness.

Craziness lends legitimacy.

People can accept that.

A crazy person


if they are truly crazy.

It is crazy to trade the company of others

for the company of yourself (According to Society).

Be careful

when trading Money

for your own value.


a philosopher’s soul food

that sours

on your lips

because it went bad

years ago.


that isn’t your own

has been


regurgitated, too often.


Speak words

that belong to you

the university has pretend philosophers

and the corporation has pretend leaders

they package and sell

company philosophy

and believe all philosophies

that don’t sell

to be useless

meant for the dumpster

out back

where the truly crazy

buy it

with their own time

by sacrificing


that pretend people want

money, fame, status, and prestige

for meaningful garbage.

Pretend People

want to be successful

and they will trade

what is valuable

for what someone says

is valuable.

They trade their philosophy

for the company slogan

that declares

they matter

and the future

is theirs

but when those words don’t work

to motivate,

pretend people are tossed

and forgotten

because they are replaceable

like people

who forgot

their philosophy.

What Makes the Grass Grow? (Another Leprechaun Story 😊)

We were coming out of a long winter; things were more dead than usual, and it seemed they would never be alive again. My dad was retired, five years, and he looked at his lawn that had died. It was killed last summer, trampled by my sister’s dogs. There were four of them, and they liked to dig holes. My dad looked at the dead lawn; most of the grass was missing, like a bald man’s head. It would take a transplant, but he was too depressed to buy sod. He just sat in his rocking chair and looked at the dirt.

“Dad, why don’t we go and buy some grass?”

“Thanks son, but no thanks. I gave that up in the 70s.”

“No, I mean, let’s go buy some sod.”

“I just don’t have the energy to lay-down sod.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Would you really?”

“Sure! The old hardware store has some.”

“Is that O’Neil’s?


“Irish. I don’t know if I can trust the Irish.”

“It’s a green lawn. The Irish are good at green things. Why don’t you trust them?”

“They are intertwined with the forces of darkness—leprechauns, and such.”

“Oh, come on—you don’t really believe that?”

“But I do, and you should too. Let’s go to O’Neil’s.”

We hopped into his truck and drove to downtown Renton. O’Neil’s had been there before Renton became a town. There was a going-out-of-business sign on the window.

“Bummer, this place is closing down,” my dad said.

We found O’Neil drinking a black beer and petting his terrier while lounging in a rocking chair.

“How are you, O’Neil?” My dad asked.

“Been better—my leg’s been acting up, and Scotty here, can’t catch the leprechaun that’s been wreaking havoc on my store and giving me loads of bad luck.”

“You say, a leprechaun?”

“Yeah. He’s always been around, and he promised me some gold in retirement, but the son-of-a-bitch skipped town. He still pops in, occasionally, and steals my beer.”

“Not to change the subject, but do you have any sod?” My dad asked.

“Oh, no. We got rid of anything alive, six months ago. Best I can do, is some Nitro fertilizer I have in the back.”

“Can we see it?”

“Sure. It’s the last can. Sensitive stuff. It’s been hanging around for a while now.”

“What do you mean, it’s sensitive stuff?”

“It’s got glycerin. It’ll blow you right up. Be careful not to walk on it too soon. It’ll sure make the grass grow, though. It’s a quick-grow fertilizer— the Irish swear by it. Some say, it’s got magical properties. There it is—only $14.95. Now, where is that blasted leprechaun. Scotty! Earn your keep!”

My dad and I paid for the fertilizer. I was a bit uneasy, with it wedged between my legs on the ride home. If we got into a car accident, the stuff might blow us sky high. When we got home, we poured it into a sprayer, carefully. The stuff gave-off heat, and I was careful not to pour it in direct sunlight. Then I walked into the backyard that looked like a war zone, with craters and holes and dead dirt everywhere, and I began spraying. I was careful not to walk on the ground I had already sprayed.

“Well, dad. I got to go home, but let me know how the fertilizer works out.”

“Will do, son. Thanks for your help today.”

I waved. I didn’t expect a call from him for at least a week, but that evening, I got a call.

“Son, the grass is growing. It’s out of control. I’ve already mowed it twice this afternoon. If it doesn’t stop, I’ll have to do a controlled burn.”

“What do you mean, you’ve mowed it twice?”

“Come over and see.” It had only been a few hours since I fertilized.

The lawn was waste-high. It was threatening to become a jungle. In the Congo, the jungle swallows houses overnight. My dad was worried.

“Why don’t you call Bob,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure.”

“But last time we hung-out, the fire department was called.”

“Well, maybe that’s what you need—a controlled burn.”

“I’m going to call O’Neil.”


This is O’Neil; I’ve left the country for Ireland. Leave a message, but I won’t get back to you.

“I got his answering machine.”

“Okay. The lawn is our problem, now. You need to call Bob.”

Bob was a Vietnam vet— terribly eccentric and effective at doing things most people don’t know how to do. His neighbor had complained about his lawn; it was too tall and scraggly. So, one day, Bob set a match to it. The neighbor called the police, but by the time they got there, Bob didn’t have a lawn, and the evidence was destroyed.

“How do you like my lawn, now?” Bob asked. He chuckled through yellow teeth and his pot-belly laughed. He was loved and hated—a man of unusual talents who was always there for his friends, if they called.

“Bob, I’ve got a situation over here with my lawn. Can you help?”

“Welllll, let me get a couple of gas cans and a shovel, and I’ll be right over.”

I heard his whiney voice coming over the phone. It was ecstatic, like static electricity, and I knew something BIG was about to happen, probably illegal. Bob lost his wife two years ago, and she was the one who reigned him in. The fourth of July was fun, and every year the police were called.

Now, the 5 AM spring sunshine was rising. Bob hopped out of his big-rig, chewing tobacco.

“Show me your grass.”

“It’s this way, Bob.” I led him to the backyard that was half as tall as our house.

“What’ve you guys been messing with?” He asked.

“Nitro fertilizer.”

“Oh, there’s no way I’m going to set fire to that. We might blow the neighborhood up. What we need, is a parks and rec mower, or a god-damn tank! You have a problem on your hands—I don’t know if it can be solved. What you clearly need is a magician or a shaman. This is magical grass. Have you walked inside?”

“No, I haven’t walked inside. Are you crazy?”

“There’s something in there. Hold on a second. Bob was back with his double-barrel shotgun. Alan, get your gun. We got to find whatever is causing this grass to grow. My dad grabbed his rifle, and I took-up the rear with a 9mm. The grass was humming and the noise grew louder, as we entered the heart of the lawn. At the center, the grass was transparent. We walked through, under blue skies, that weren’t quite blue. They were purple. It was an open field, where a leprechaun was lounging in a lawn chair.

“O’Neil, is that you?” The leprechaun asked. He was drinking a black beer. Clearly drunk, which is saying something for a leprechaun.

“No, O’Neil went back to Ireland, and pawned his curse off on us.”

“That old fool is trickier than me. Can’t take a joke. Takes everything personal. I was even going to give him this pot of gold here, but since he went back to the home-country, I guess I’ll be giving it to you.”

He handed me the pot of gold next to his chair, with a mischievous grin.

“I just want my lawn back, you son-of-a-bitch,” my dad said.

“Granted,” the leprechaun replied. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m working on my tan; the way back is the way you came.” He put on his sunglasses and resumed his sunbathing. We walked back through the portal onto our perfect lawn.

My dad has never needed to water it. It remains green, all year long. The neighbors stop by and admire it. My dad tells them the story of the leprechaun, which no one believes, but everyone enjoys. And my dad and Bob are more than taken-care-of in retirement with their pot of gold.

The End

the furnace in the sky

there is a dark red sun


mechanized, and hot

it glows

with the fury of men


in their industry

breathing, charcoal dust

into their iron lungs

like machines



giving off

sick smoke

like Damascus steel

brittle and broken

because they took too much fire

pounded by hammers

willingly shaped

on an anvil

of their desire

to become something useful

a tool

a hook

a weapon, for war

these heroes, from the fire

cut down

beautiful fields

and fill them

with houses

their marching machines

built tough


in water

by their women

who care

to make them harder

the iron, is crushing

they aren’t supposed to feel

they are steel

accepting responsibility

Unlike, soft men

who know the real world

looking for a quiet place

to hide

to survive


Unwilling, to be molded by fire

they lie, in undeveloped fields

as long as they can

watching white clouds

float by

soft and light

just as they are

but even then

the red sun burns, up high

and solar winds

fuel their ambition

like a moth to the flame

a dream

for something perfect

they know, isn’t real

a woman can cause them to feel

for better or worse

Unlike men, shaped in the fire

These weak men

are like snails


on one foot

with tears, trailing behind

Do they have the guts to feel

to be dried up in the sun

or drown by rain

holding electricity

shocked, by electric clouds

feeling deeply, willing to feel again?

No one, can make your decisions for you

your choices will cut you wide open

revealing, your guts

what you are made of

the slow journey

is dangerous

Will you get out from under your rock

even when aware

of the furnace, in the sky

a hero

without responsibility

placing their hope

in dreams.

On the Cross, Again

All day, today

I did something that didn’t matter

so that I would matter

these paperwork chains

cut me

and hold me

like a helpless


All the time must be wasted

so that I can go on living

and not worry

about the hard life

just waiting

for a really bad day.

I’m stuck to my work chair

dotting I’s and crossing T’s.

I’m on the cross

watching myself die


Getting off this cross

will mean

I’m Jesus Christ

and the only way to do that

is to save myself.


I know I’m not God

because I don’t want to save the world.

At 5 PM, it’s the darkest hour

it is finished

a sunshiny day

buried in the dark

recesses of my office

stuck to my work chair

dotting I’s and crossing T’s

that weren’t crossed


and the stone

is never rolled away.

I’m guilty of wanting to trap beautiful things…

I breathe life into her

and she breathes life

into me

I am her body

every part of me

love, chooses us

like a Boquete of dancing flowers

like a morning

that has not yet come

or called our name.

there are things

of the mediocre


that average men

like spreadsheets.

Reaching for her

when she, is just out of reach.

I am surrounded by dead things

grasping for fantasies, I can place in a dingy cupboard.

Live things

don’t collect dust

they collect

light, sunset light

on waves of eternal play

they giggle

like whirlpool waters


on the way down.

Rich things

can be cold and damp

or warm, as the summer sun

Canary-yellow Ferrari

on blue Caribbean day

cobblestone streets

and Gelato.

I’m guilty of wanting to trap beautiful things

sweet things

tasty and smooth

black and yellow butterflies

dusty swallowtails

that swallow-up my soul

let me know what it tastes like

sensual delight

beautiful butterfly

I want to try on your wings

to fly with you

to make me feel alive

but I know

alive things fly with alive things

the sandy ocean

is for sandy ocean women.

I watch the alive things

it hurts to look at them

but I can’t look away

beauty is just out of reach

if we could only grab it

and hold onto it

without choking her

like a yellow rose


and dying

in lukewarm water


in a dusty house.

I prefer to watch beautiful things

staying alive.

I’ll capture them in photographs

in my mind.

I won’t mount them

on satin or velvet

like a sexual conquest

with the needle piercing through.

I’ll let them be alive

free, and dancing

Alive, so different from me

I wish I could live with them

I wish I could be with her

Alive things grow in my soil


she is every part of me

we might breathe the same air

if I was breathing

Give me the breath of life

so that I can breathe into you.

Right before you take the stage…

there is subtle pleasure

in what one

can live




well-ordered lives

are like personal bookshelves

filled with

important books.

Who are you

right before you take the stage

in front of dazzling lights?

the moments leading up to the big moment


you can stuff yourself with so many things

and fill your schedule with so many dates

it’s a chronic problem

of the bored

and uninitiated

best, to fast

and rest

stop reading

stop thinking

stop eating

stop drinking

stop talking

stop trying

to solve


you will be dead soon

lay in bed

and practice

what it feels like

to die

it might be more pleasant

than your busy


I wish I could take advice…

I wish I could take advice

but I prefer to wish…

and the wishes I make

take me far away.

I’m discovering why I do things—

the real reasons

only I know.

It’s a mystery

that unravels.

Few people care


have adequate theories.

We gain meaning

when we decide

the secrets that matter.

You can tell someone why you do things

and they will say…

“No, you’re wrong. This is why…”

Being figured out

by a contradiction

is worse

than your own self-opinion.

I could never trust my parent’s advice

but now I know


more or less


It’s impossible to accept


when you aren’t ready for it

So, let a fool

find out

from his foolishness

the man

who loves to eat

grows fatter

I look into the mirror

it doesn’t lie


my own


A wise man does not try to be superior

because there is no middle


or top

His chess skills

don’t qualify him to lead an army

even if

it’s tempting

to believe.