two guys named Dima

their endless tales of epic jean jackets

acquired on the black market in Poland

later equally unfathomable

tales of erotic adventures—

both immigrated

out of the blue

announcing the move a few short weeks

prior to departure, each one suddenly

admitted to having a Jewish grandparent—

the golden ticket

out of the Soviet Union

or as we called it, sovok—the dustpan—

one Dima moved to Queens

the other to Brooklyn

later, already in America, I knew a Sergey

who changed his name to Kyle

not Serge or Reg—a brand-new name, no

trace of consonants in common with the old—

he walked into our apartment

and we offered him a cigar: “real Cuban—

ever had one?”

“oh yeah, big time, yeah” said Kyle, in English,

lighting up a big $1 Dutchmaster, which

we bought at the bodega earlier that day

“the real deal,” said Kyle

expertly, slowly, exhaling through the gap

between his front teeth—

there was also Perry

born Platon, which is Russian for Plato

was the only kid in the whole Ukraine with a name like that

no wonder he changed it here

and changed it and changed it and changed it

that year he would tell people his name was Nicci

and that his dad was a Swiss BMW dealer—

he and I would talk so much

poetry and music and languages and sex

till Washington Heights grew dark

till Dunkin’ closed and dumped

dinner out for us

he’d always talk about his Swiss girlfriend

from an ultra-religious family

a girl with a ravenous desire and thick stockings

we were liars, all liars,

non-stop fucking alien migrant liars

guess it was important for us to take a bite

off anything that felt like a reality

even the tip of that Dutchmaster

we were so very hungry