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.