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.
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