Come on, Putin.
I've got Russian blood, I've got a pussy, people say I'm a riot.
Come on, Vlad baby, step into my balaclava.
My face is covered by Canada, and now they say you have the Riotesses in a cell, and now they say your police brutes (tell me it ain't so, Vladdie, laddie) your Pussy Riot interrogators have been waving an Ontario Health Card at one of the girl group, as evidence of her collaboration with the high agents of the Canadian government.
Oh, Vlad, you're so yesterday.
I can't even use my Ontario Health Card as ID in my own bank, and yet your men are waving it, with all their sad muscle at the captive ladies in a prison cell, like KGB playing threat capitalism with Monopoly money.
Vlad, it's sad. (Vlad, have you ever heard of Freddie Mercury?)
So, anyways. The woman your tough guys were waving that Canadian Province of Ontario Health Card at...? Yeah Vlad, she's got permanent resident status in old bad suspect Canada. Yeah, her husband is Russian-Canadian. Yeah, her man went to public school here and then on to high school, in old sneaky T.O.
Yeah, Vlad, you gotta watch we health-care receiving Toronto pushy busy rushing Russian---Canadians. Oyoyoy.
(Oh, but dear P....has W called lately, to talk about sweet times and gone, looking into your eyes?)
So yeah, Vlad, come on, bring it. I'll meet you on the that third highest dune, up in Death Valley. Come on, Putin, you bring your epee, I'll bring mine. We'll fence without fences.
But be forewarned, I got Odessa inside me, I got the Black Sea, I got rock 'n roll, I got a brand new punk haircut, I got ski masks for a party.
(Photo of Susan, face wrapped in a shawl, sand dunes Death Valley California, 2006, by D)