Sunday, February 10, 2013

Dwarf Birches in Elko

Reading from the big book
fat from bookmarks and folded pages
Paul lifts his face to the horizon
           the English words sail
from the Russian mind
past the Polish Cowboy's black mustache,
and Moonshine-busted ivory,
Blossoming ranch-raised hearts
to near bursting, near breaking
with joy and pain
we almost fear but can't resist

Reciting from the big book,
    Yevgeny claws his hands,
flits and snarls,
codetalking freedom
           no government censor could ignore,
Coliseums full of cheering fans tearfully applaud,
           No dignity-starved citizen
                                   would ever misunderstand.

Celt exranchers watch the buckaroo backdrop blur
The Siberian
music and message
of downtrodden, enslaved humanity escaping
like our universal dreams of freedom,
into the neon-lit casino-town January night
so easy, so damned easy...
              We wonder why the Russian government
wasted sixteen years pretending
This truth might fade away.

                  Cousins now, the Polish ex-bareback riggen hand
trembling, holds the big book
          the words of "Babi Yar," unread, record
His unknown great-uncles
          murdered and pit buried
score by score,
for a Boone and Crockett
          contemptible cowardice
few top hand grief riders can mark,
           both sides.

Arms floating,
Yevgeny twists like a gumby gnome,
feminine arcs of wrist and chin,
ground-even teeth flashing,
guttural half-shouting
"Dwarf Birches!"

                                  -dwarf birches.

When they both are done,
                we stand together, and by God,
no paltry governments can stem our truth,
                deflower our one, divine humanity,
                warp our spines-
                twist our limbs- and leaves--

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