Dirty Moscow Traffic — Poem
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«© A.Savin, WikiCommons»I thought it was a good idea to look back over the shoulder, and remind myself of the times I don’t often look back on. Almost teen but still a kid, in a first brave attempt of disobedience.
It was truly an amazing privilege to walk around the old, central Moscow streets in the early hours of the morning. The path would take around thirty minutes to complete. This walk would lead to a huge book shop, where you could spend hours getting lost in smells of freshly printed books and creative looking covers.
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Lost in the streets of Santa Monica.
No, wrong place, wrong tape,
I picked,
on the somewhat dusty shelf,
of the thought memorabilia,
and treasures I imagine.
Start again,
Lost in the streets around Lyubyanka,
skipping prayer, glued to the details
of the imprinted splash of the imperial creativity
on a few archaic bricks.
Red fabric flask
inside the bony cage
is always beating,
and beating hella fast,
even if the path is known,
even if my lanky body is unseen.
Continue down Pokrovka street,
past the small blue palace,
where Pushkin stayed and slept,
maybe wrote, but also ate a lot,
while serfdom served.
Skipping fast,
past extravagant
and gayishly flamboyant
embassy of the small Republic Belarus.
Moving down some Seika street,
in Japan it means,
a pure form of summer,
but I imagined Finnish shamans,
praying to the god of Maroseika.
Now the branches split,
tragic moment,
time stops still,
or maybe I dreamed of
endless gas and crumpled packet
Yava smelling, nauseating,
dirty Moscow traffic.
I turn right
down the lane
which name will never rhyme,
I wouldn’t even try.
Continue straight,
towards the home of the neoclassical idea,
blue medusa, and beautiful architectural poetic muse.
Left, I’m almost there,
looking for the reddish building,
the shade of cherished sunset
or maybe a morning rise
More like ketchup-mayonnaise,
true genius, inventor.
Gloves are quickly stuffed inside the pocket,
which is not so cozy,
filled with colored wrappers,
and the annoying dunes of crumbs,
kissing wet and heavy gloves,
in a forever dance,
until I halt, this unnatural affair.
Tyrant.
I enter,
blown away by a sudden wave of the warm,
air-conditioning tornado,
itching pubic hairs
on the back of my long neck.
It’s huge inside but modest outside,
kingdom of the literature and prose,
autobiography of dictators,
books of war, and shameless shota,
share the shelf, with business nomenclature.
