Archive for the ‘Я не знаю’ Category

Sometimes one more letter makes all the difference,

sometimes there’s no sitting on the fence.

Sometimes you wish things could go back

to the way they used to be,

before we knew we weren’t free,

supposedly,

alas. …

Indeed!

The politics of identity.

… Baloney

and imposed aspirations

make for crappy sandwiches at work

and confused kitchen table talk in the evenings.

Lest we regret, this is life.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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Vis-à-vis,

mon ami,

be careful what you wish for,

it might be a cliché,

like yesterday,

and heartbeats…

(perhaps you only have so many)

…minutes at the beach.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

So, how are we to play?

Remembering the passage of time:

loss,

and lost,

flow and stagnation,

obscured reflection,

water in a dirty ditch.

The Chess set has fairly nice pieces,

but the board is so worn,

and I can’t forgive the missing pawn.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Too stark, she says,

this thing we have done,

contrasting bad and good,

replacing wrong with “right”…

revolutions and intentions.

Pause, reflect,

so much lost,

a relative black hole.

Indeed, we need to ameliorate,

find appropriate red paint,

restore our fate.

… Is it possible?

Tomorrow…

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Something beautiful,

or at least I thought it was,

and/or wanted it to be.

Now tarnished,

sullied with hurt and pain.

Communication breakdown.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

It’s Summer

and they’re giving away watermelon at the market:

children and adults rush with gleeful abandon,

but nothing is truly free…

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

It’s World Fair Trade Week,

whatever that means.

“Like, fair trade prostitution?” I ask.

… Unexploited, with no pimps.

An honest and fair exchange.

Is it possible?

… In this age where sex is no longer sacred,

well, maybe.

But, then, *everything* is a commodity,

and *everyone* wants the best deal.

… And money is tighter than your ass.

So…

Likely, no.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

New York is enraptured

as Jimmy Connors is more of an asshole than ever,

and

the USSR is crumbling apart.

Momentous.

Cavernous pit,

all utter shit…

Captivating,

compulsive

trainwreck in motion,

where will it end?

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

History and terror.

Who knows what was true?

Can you trust perspective?

If you were there, passion and fear,

ashes,

blood,

and guts.

For the others:

words, time,

rust…

Detachment changes meaning

and books

gather

dust.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Red Terror,

White Terror,

Day Terror,

Night Terror.

Memories I imagine,

from other people’s accounts.

I shudder with repulsion, pain and fear.

Yes, I understand,

but I don’t know.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat