"yulitsa" poems - Hello Poetry

Five March, Березень, пятый, these clouds, butterflies, this old anger and this rotten coffee *** Mold and clouds. The insufferable beauty of potholes, we walk Yulitsa Kikvidze and note buildings blotched with satellite dishes (mushroom sprouts from Soviet brick) concrete proof that we exist. Yesterday, I say I will not be a prime squared again for seventy-two years: happy birthday, маленькая кошка! Snowlit clouds, ice and broken asphalt, springtime in Kiev is all disappointed dogs, life after love.

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Mar 5, 2013

Mar 5, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC

mickey-rat

next stop Belarus, believe:

Five March, Березень, пятый, these clouds, butterflies, this old anger and this rotten coffee *** Mold and clouds. The insufferable beauty of potholes, we walk Yulitsa Kikvidze and note buildings blotched with satellite dishes (mushroom sprouts from Soviet brick) concrete proof that we exist. Yesterday, I say I will not be a prime squared again for seventy-two years: happy birthday, маленькая кошка! Snowlit clouds, ice and broken asphalt, springtime in Kiev is all disappointed dogs, life after love.

11

In an otherwise quiet snowlit night the chelloveck ahead has shuffle-skitch shoes. I have clock clock boots. The fog train to Voksal at this distance hoots like a toy. Some meters trailing someone’s step is a sticky squick-squick. As I turn left, I think of nothing save cognac, cognac and koshka (Marusya), the mild entertainments of loneliness so far removed from my mother tongue: through snow-covered courtyards the dogs hours ago abandoned. What good is it to be fluent in one’s own language when the mashrutka slush and hiss down Yulitsa Kikvidze in the distance? At home, the cat chews the cords to the blinds of the kitchen window, her wants more important than mine.

0

Mar 5, 2013

Mar 5, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC

mickey-rat

no country for old cats

In an otherwise quiet snowlit night the chelloveck ahead has shuffle-skitch shoes. I have clock clock boots. The fog train to Voksal at this distance hoots like a toy. Some meters trailing someone’s step is a sticky squick-squick. As I turn left, I think of nothing save cognac, cognac and koshka (Marusya), the mild entertainments of loneliness so far removed from my mother tongue: through snow-covered courtyards the dogs hours ago abandoned. What good is it to be fluent in one’s own language when the mashrutka slush and hiss down Yulitsa Kikvidze in the distance? At home, the cat chews the cords to the blinds of the kitchen window, her wants more important than mine.

17

Small berms of snowice and cigarette butts line beneath the awning sidewalks of Yulitsa Pushkinska, impenetrable. We have yet to decide how to slice ourselves open, how to conspire for casualties. Desire lingers like four days’ melt mid-winter. Who really feels day to day that nothing will change? This faith in schedules, taxes, credits, furtive moments with a familiar lover, this lack of spasms and undramatic intent can suffice for half a lifetime, but you’ve become an unreliable narrator in your own novel, prone to wild speculation and impulsive looks at other women.

0

Mar 5, 2013

Mar 5, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC

mickey-rat

what international bartender’s day means

Small berms of snowice and cigarette butts line beneath the awning sidewalks of Yulitsa Pushkinska, impenetrable. We have yet to decide how to slice ourselves open, how to conspire for casualties. Desire lingers like four days’ melt mid-winter. Who really feels day to day that nothing will change? This faith in schedules, taxes, credits, furtive moments with a familiar lover, this lack of spasms and undramatic intent can suffice for half a lifetime, but you’ve become an unreliable narrator in your own novel, prone to wild speculation and impulsive looks at other women.

17