ode to a russian dashcam

eyes for the blindspot
 

dead-ahead, knowing all that runs
 

up like trash against a mercedes shore.
 

what if there was a grandmother, headless
 

underwheel but for her bags of cabbage, heavy
 

and sober but for knowing an air? would she topple
 

trilled consummately as a slavic R on the windscreen palate?


 

progenitor of 12,000 youtube
 

likes and even more demerit points.
 

prodigy of circumventing government,
 

censor capturing all that swings like ultraorthodoxy,
 

caught in the offstitch of a blood-stained-red birkin bag.


 

here's to you,
 

custodian to pictures at an
 

exhibition of a hospital stretcher rowed
 

like a canoe down the streets of early march,


 

here's to your health,
 

witness to the lost leg of
 

a vodka-swilled pensioner, to the
 

countless pairs of tracksuits. interpreter
 

of the words, for imported purebred, chamomile
 

bouquet, how to glide stoicly on black ice and chinese-made
 

glock drawn like a face from a tinted window translate only into
 

expletives, syllables pulled back from a inevitable fatalism of a new iron curtain.
 


and your imperative: to tell  
 

jaywalker apart from a deathwish,
 

to dial down the radio and enjoy the
 

national anthem of a soviet tank on a
 

newly-paved freeway. atop a dash of plastic,
 

black as sea, to capture a complete breakdown
 

at the side of a prospect, of a student demonstration,
 

of pedestrian morals and the state duma of apathy, of rye
 

bread speedhumps and an inverted pawing of mule hooves.


 

too many children were in the
 

backseat of that tractor/pushcart
 

hybrid, capsized as if for a baltic hope,
 

burning before your eyes like chekhov's pigeons.


 

look! a flock of troika bastards.