In New York an émigré cab driver had a conversation with my mom about Mayakovsky. Slipping over his words, he talked to her, twisting in his seat, about socialism and complete equality. He called the man in the yellow sweater a genius, a direct bomber with words. I was too young to participate, just to observe, like I did in the 90s. I read his poetry. It hits. It is an armament of words to militarize a population of the 20’s. Then a wall crumbled in Berlin, people needed more than American jeans, and here we are. We slammed the yellow door and got out. Was a poet the same as a regime, or a cab?


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