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The gas supplying was not stop because the gas trunk-line went thru Stepanakert climbed up to the Shushi City, whose population in the aftermath of the massacre in March 1920 became ethnic Azerbaijanis who you couldn't left without heating in winter.
The most forceful report on the ravages in the spring of 1920 was left by Osip Mandelstam in his poem “Here in Mountainous Karabakh, in the ancient Shushi City…”
He didn’t eye-witnessed the carnage but ten years later roamed about mute lanes in the demolished Armenian blocks in Shushi.
However, poets can see thru not only into future…
* * *
Bottle #6: ~ The Clover To Roll In ~
Where the screwball popped up from I couldn’t even say. Nix, not a damn chance.
Moreover, that I was not on high yet in my regular nirvana and just a sec back scanned the street with the enlightened gaze and stuff ‘cause of no ticker on me, nope, never, which reason makes me recon out the current time of day’s figures by only the upcurve in the bustling or, on the contrary, by the slant towards smoothness in the observable flow of street life. Quite a simple trick and does not take too much of practicing to read it, the time.
It’s hard to say or recollect the street’s name though ‘cause of them names keep replacing each other way too often, depending on who’s in power right now, the Reds or the Whites, but in our neighborhood I’ll find it blindfold by groping, yep, with both hands tied.
Verily decent neighborhood, the ours. No harassment from cops, nopes, no patrol car will ever take risks to get in if alone. It’s only in the all-out posse, with the sirens a-wailing so as to uphold their own courage. But there’s always a chance to run into an M2 or else into some of cheap China machine guns. The question of karma and stuff, you know.
Not much of manufactories here either. A score or there about of Northern Koreans day and night rattling their sewing machines in the basement opposite the bar You’ll Get It. A no never mind production line. Samely dispensable as those posterity of the Jamaica’s delegation to the International Forum of Youth and Students Organizations of the World, on the sixth floor in the tower-block where they keep packing coke for Don. Completely quiet, decent, and no trouble at all society members.
Well, yes though, last week one of their team took a dive from the window. Exactly as I was passing by for the lunch break, he plummeted a-singing his parting aria of the Lonesome Swan if you know what I’m about. High alt up to B-flat in the second octave and no doubt.
And in the right moment too. No one got damaged, of those uninvolved. With quite a tolerable precision value, in the sidewalk – sh-plumps! And keeps the classical supine position, the eyes plumb-up into the sky. Maybe, with a pinch of kinda reproach.
You’d never think the dude was a Jamaican brat. Sooner might be taken for a native from some state in southern India, by his looks.
And those two brothels too, under Thai Massage signboards, yet the nurses in the business are not so too tiny after all, same pod’s peas, each and every from the Middle Russia regions, not for nothing we have striven after joining the crowd of chip implanting globalization.
Not even a regular slot machine hall around, just a couple of clandestine rat holes for local gamblers in Three-Card Brag and Black Jack. Backwater, in short.
As regards those sporadic reports at night, it’s just youngsters trifling with their handguns. All in all, the hood weekly output rarely overshoots a couple of farting-bags with stiffs, on average.
And as for my nirvana where could it be from two minutes before the second slim?
Moderation and consideration, in keeping with good homeopathic manners, that’s my approach to pot. Two slims in the morning and two in the afternoon, after the lunch.
Not that I need much really, politely landed in the corner will graze a package of chips, I, or maybe a hot-dog, two at most. Cutie critters them those doggies, do not bite back. Then the spill of a cup of something from coffocoa line, atop – that’s my lunch in a whole day, and back I goes to my bench to watch the pulse of the business activities, while enjoying my third slim, and as for the wholesome joint its turn comes at night, code named “night-cap gasper”.
So, no way I would omit him any moment back but—here you are!—out of nowhere this feathered wonder, pelage a-bristle, hair style in the vogue of 60’s when children of flowers kept a-stirring their cultural revolution in the California beaches.
The jeans severed as knee-long shorts, yes, you could see it at a glance – not cut but severed, when he had put them on a boulder and chiseled off with a flat tool stone like an inadequate Neanderthal man. And from his bugged-out eyes befuddled looks in all directions. In short the famous lost picture by Rembrandt “A Hick at the Fare or Come and Fuck Up the Mark”.
Then, naturally, I lit up enjoying the free show.
After gaping for awhile he steers to my side.
"Where am I?" sez the wacko.
And it’s quite OK by me, shortly after a fresh slim I’m always ready for a chat.
"Welcome back to the planet of your likes, alien," sez I. "Yet getting the answer to your 'where?' you'll certainly go over to testing the waters about your squadron's landing spot, so why not to contact Dr. Serafimovich with your rickety questions directly?"
"And it's winter or summer now?" sez he. He did soar high that fucking hippie.
"It depends," sez I, "on the Tropic you are in. And where are you from?"
"Island of Freedom."
"Wow! Amigo marijuanisto! Cuba – si! Yanks – no! How is compa~nero Fidel over there? When is his exhumation scheduled for?"
To which he pinched his beard under the lower lip, jerked his head sideways and landed on the bench next to me: