A STORY

To a time we go.
To a place we now
To a land that is no different than ours
To find a story.
That hasn't been told.
About a lady.

And this lady was given a long nickname.
"A sewer rat that looks like an old red tail of an ex-convict."
Which
is 
long.
Yet to start this story
We need to ask one question.
"So, can you tell us a little about
Your mother?"

that is how our story will begin.

The Poet 

A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP

Mikhail was glad that Semyon Repin had picked rapiers. He missed Nastasya and pistols were too quiet.   

Not the actual gunshot of course. The moment before the shot--that was silence. That required bravery. Mikhail had never been interested in bravery.  He was interested in avoiding the boredom that was existence. His father had been a general in the army, General Vsevolod Piskovatsov, then a timber lord, so successful that there was nothing for Mikhail to improve, no function for him to serve. Mikhail had made the unfortunate discovery that only when his life was in danger was it worth keeping.   Perhaps it was not so unfortunate after all--it kept him interested. If he hadn't discovered dueling, he'd probably have been dead--drowned, hung, or brains across the dining table--long ago.               

Repin had been easy to provoke. He was of the kind who walked around with a chest so full of air that they could float on the Volga. This time, Mikhail had thrown in a “So can you tell me a little more about your mother,” during a discussion of horse sales.  It was a crude tactic, but effective with Repin’s sort. Mikhail had obtained his challenge, and was here once more.

Of course "here" had followed him many places; St. Petersburg,  Novgorod, Moscow, a few in Berne and Geneva when he was passing through.  But Mikhail would always come back to the timeless place, he and his sword, Nastasya.  He had trained too well with her.  He had crafted a beautiful relationship, he had to use it, he had to.  

It was all that Mikhail had to do.  Otherwise, what were his years of practice worth, what were they worth?  Otherwise, what was anything worth?  Nastasya's purpose was to kill, he could not starve her.

He’d have joined the military, but he wasn’t interested in glory or discipline.  The art of killing, that was all there was, just life and death entwined in breathing metal.  Nastasya was more alive than he was, that was why he needed her. She reacted to the outside world. How cruel it would be to prevent something with a purpose from executing it.    

Those who stopped at first blood called him sick. He made a name for himself as a duelist, a troublemaker, even a murderer.  He changed his name, then again. The most difficult part was creating new contacts and avoiding the old ones.  So far, he had been lucky.  He knew it was only a matter of time, but then so was oblivion.  He’d made an effort to forget his old names.  As if he would care, the family disowned him after his first three kills. But at that point, it was too late to give it up; he was addicted to the thrill of it. He stole the majority of his mother's jewels and eloped with Nastasya. It was not Mikhail Piskovatsov but Mikhail Goncharov dueling Repin. No--it was Mikhail Antokolsky. Bah. He'd find out soon enough.   

If he died, he could come back from the grave to read what name they wrote above it. That is, assuming that he could find it. This thought pleased him as he stepped out of the carriage into the field. The cloud cover sprawled like a drunk, promising a deluge over his head but not quite ready to give it. Maybe at one time he'd have been struck by the poeticism of it.   

A horse galloped up behind him. Was it his second? No, that fool Dubrov would have worn a hat.  What kind of idiot volunteered to be a second for a man he'd met not two months past? Dubrov, apparently, with his youth and bouncing step and matching scarves and gloves. He probably thought today would be great fun. Repin then? He squinted.  Indeed, it was.  To his disappointment, he found that his heart hardly quickened.       

Dubrov appeared, then Repin’s brother. Mikhail had never paid much attention to Repin's brother.
The seconds were silent as they inspected the weapons.  Dubrov's hands jittered and his eyes were wet. Mikhail paid no attention.  Repin’s face was pale too, which irritated him. Dubrov was not yet twenty-five, he could still be excited by this life. Repin should know better. What right had he to care? Like most Russian socialites, he was an inflated, hypocritical, bumbling, glass-smashing, heathen in an expensive coat. If he died, it would hardly be a tragedy.

Mikhail snatched Nastasya. His nerves began to tingle--so there was something human left in them.  Mikhail smiled. Repin spat, misinterpreting the smile.  

“You’re scum.”  Mikhail’s grin deepened, and turned dark. At some point they must have saluted because the battle had begun.

Mikhail had known woman, but none like Nastasya.  No human was like Nastasya. He became her and she became him, and the both danced with Repin in a way so glorious that it must be right. Something from her whispered to something in him and the wordless ecstasy of combat dawned. Words dissolved with Nastasya. All was motion, motion was life, and life was good. Repin jerked as they circled, eyeing Mikhail’s point.  He was not free in this medium. Brawls and honor duels had not prepared him for the higher form of fighting. His attack was brewing. Nastasya, the darling, stopped it and retaliated, barely missing Repin’s wrist.   

A beautiful rhythm began, with Nastasya flitting into Repin’s area of insecurity, causing wild overreactions.  This man truly was a heathen. The swaying built a tempo, waiting to be pierced.  And--ah, not three minutes into the round, Nastasya dragged Mikhail deep into Repin’s chest. Duels never lasted long.  The blood was everywhere and he was screaming, but it was all right, natural, musical.  Maybe he was dead, did it matter? The world was better without his sort.  

Repin’s brother rushed over, Dubrov too. Dubrov was white--was this the first time he'd seen blood?  

“Are you alright?” Mikhail wiped Nastasya down, absorbed in her glint.

“Quite alright.’  He looked up with Dubrov, and would have smiled, save for something in the other’s eye. Had they said first blood?  Glancing around, he realized that even the driver of the carriage looked horrified. Repin's brother was shaking. As he wiped the last of the red from Nastasya’s skin, Mikhail realized that it would be time to move again once he finished with the second Repin.   

tsarina

BUSCO LA VERDAD

Embrace the shreds

That used to be

What you called your identity.

Climb the stairs

to fall again

Busco la verdad también.

An acid rain, no drain of pain, just the insane with hate to gain.

Pictures painted beneath our eyelids from our waking moment.

My thoughts aren't mine the fine line

'Twixt right and wrong I can't

Define

I've grown to be

My own so I can

loan my lips to others.

And watch how the world smothers itself time and time again

Busco la verdad también.

So judge me from behind the cross the

Gradebook

Counter

Temple

Mosque

Have fun licking bitter labels to plaster on each other

Have fun ticking little tables to convert man to number.

Our fear is our enslavement

Life's a scuff on the pavement

A flash of light in the midst of an eternal slumber

But I can't help but feel the fear because I am just another

Human blunder, torn asunder

from nature

just to plunder

Waves from seas and sound from thunder

To see life a lonely ocean

Compass in a tailspin motion

No god or creature good enough that doesn't answer why

The human cry the lie for which humanity

would die

Has died

will die again

Busco la verdad también

My thoughts aren’t mine the fine line

‘Twixt right and wrong I can’t

Define

I’ve grown to be

My own so I can

loan my lips to others

And watch how the world smothers itself time and time again

Busco la verdad también.

We always want a reason and we always want a rhyme

we want the wheel to turn and the clocks to keep the time

But the seconds melt to minutes and the minutes pass us by

And in us is the question

The longing to know why the sky

Harbors the stars

And in the valleys lie

rivers little slivers born when the heavens cry

Each instant is infinity

Chaos and serenity

The universe an entity and we can only try

To make a choice of colors because there is

no black or white

Right and wrong are guidelines

The dark as pure as light

So blue may fight the grey and now green may think it's right.

No matter where you stand life impairs your line of sight.

Convoluted concepts conceive only confusion

Distance and discontent develop deep delusion

Yet if the rainbow mixed the world would feel the loss

And so spider-webbing out over infinite branches we hang like fruit waiting for the fall not knowing where we end and where others begin and how still others can be so far.

And my thoughts aren’t mine the fine line

‘Twixt right and wrong I can’t

Define

I’ve grown to be

My own so I can

loan my lips to others

And meaning’s lost all meaning

And smiles are just covers

And wandering through foreign streets

there are no foes or brothers

And wondering how empty beats can touch the hearts of others

And pondering how like a spring we tumble in circles, struggling through new points that are only manifestations of the old.

And watching the world smother itself time and time again

Busco la verdad también.

tsarina

POEMS FOR THE DUMB #1

BISMARCK

Limerick

Once there was a sewer rat named Jean

Whose bright red tail always went unsung.

So he killed an old man

And escaped the law’s hand.

And was known for his smoking hot buns

Haiku

The rat speaks to me

In dreams with flurries of red

Never getting free.

THANKS

THE POET
To give thanks for what I have
To give thanks for what I don't need.
Because my life is 
As great as it can be

I live with all my heart's content
Ask for nothing in return.
I have friends that care
That always ask if I'm ok.
Teachers that teach me
Everything
I need to know
In life.

And Parents that nurtured me from birth till now.

I have food on my table.
I have a roof over my head.
I have supplies to survive
And I have a loving family.

But I ask for one thing
That one thing is
To give all I have
To another.
Because all I need is my loving family when others need more.
It might be because they have forgotten
They have 
forgotten
about what they were or have been taught.
They have thought that their parents
Teachers
Friends
Didn't care.
When they actually did.

So I ask them to open their minds and hearts.
To see the people do care
about them
To learn what they have already been taught
And see what they are in life.

Because we were all brought into this world by a greater soul.
And that Greater Soul sent us to this world for a reason.
Not just for us to suffer but to help others.

So I am thankful that I am here.
I hope to help that other.
So I hope that you also are thankful, and want to help those who are lost.

DOLLS

Tsarina

I smashed the porcelain doll’s head in by accident. Stupid thing; I was going to be in trouble.

Why was it always dolls with Grandma?  Christmas dolls, birthday dolls, blinky dolls and china dolls, sitting staring out from every crook and cornice.  Grandma converted Dad’s room into a doll museum.  The small dolls are on the bed, the blinky ones on the dresser and the American girl dolls are in the closet with all their accessories and outfits packed in boxes and labeled.  I don’t know where Dad’s old stuff is.  We don’t have it. Grandma could have used Dad’s younger sister’s room; it’s bigger and fancier, full of lace and frills.  But she keeps that room as it was when his sister was in the house.  I’ve only ever seen it once; we aren’t allowed in.

If Grandma were smart, like my Uncle Denny, she would have dug a house out under her house by herself and put the dolls there. Then she wouldn’t have given us this doll, and I couldn’t have broken it. (Uncle Denny didn’t have dolls; he had a homemade lab, punchcard computer, and cot so that he had somewhere to sleep. He rented out his actual house so that he had money to live. Dad said that he is a doctor, but not the kind that help people . To help people he digs through trash to find old computers to fix. )   She went on and on about how nice this doll was, how only big girls could handle having it. She went back and forth about giving it to us a few times.  And then I went and broke it.  Of course it would work out that way.  

Dolls are stupid.  I don’t even like them; I was bored.  It deserved to have it’s head broken, but I don’t like how it’s looking at me now, with only half a face.  I only ever liked the nesting doll and reversible babushka that Halmoni brought back from from Russia.  That was long ago, before she broke her back in China.  Russia is the greatest country because it has the greatest folktales and names.  I used to confuse it with Canada because they’re the same shape and color in my head.  Grandma would never give me a Russian doll.  

My sisters don’t like dolls either, but Grandma keeps buying them for us.  At least she buys me my own, she makes them share because they’re twins.  Mom doesn’t like that.

In any case, dolls are better than looking at her worm garden. I suppose I should be glad that it’s not a snail garden; I’m afraid of snails.  They look like great sticky aliens slurping along the sidewalk, plotting, twisting, letting their shells be smashed just like the doll let her face be smashed.   

Whales are scary too.  Sometimes I imagine them in their giant blackness, how they could inhale a person without knowing, and I scare myself.          

I should tell someone that I broke the doll.  But I’m afraid to; it was expensive.  Footsteps came up behind me.  Footsteps are scary too.

“Dad?” I shifted.

“What happened?”

“It fell.” The truth was I dropped it, but I figured the less attached I was to the catastrophe, the better.  He glanced at the broken doll and the black hole in her face, sucking my stomach down towards like a mouth hungry for fear.  

“That’s mildly disturbing.”  He sighed.  I sat crossing and twisting my fingers, waiting. He didn’t seem angry.

“Will Mom notice?” I tilted my head.  The hole wasn’t that bad--was it?  Less than half her face was gone.

“I think so.”  He picked it up and put it back on the little wooden chair.

“Don’t move, there’s broken glass.” He scooped up shards.  “You shouldn’t play with delicate toys. Though I’m not sure why Grandma gave it to you.”  

“What’s happening?”  Mom poked her head around the corner.

“The doll broke.”

“Great, now it’s going to give her nightmares.  As if it didn’t before.”  Mom disappeared.  “Don’t let her cut herself.” She called back.  Warmth rushed back into me as I realized that the crisis had passed.        

The doll sat half-staring on the shelf.  She wasn’t going to give me nightmares, that was silly.  Grandma had cared so much about that doll, I felt guilty.  But if Mom and Dad didn’t care, well, what could I do about that?  

The next day someone took mercy and buried it in the trash.

THE RENAISSANCE

--THE POET
A time 
In which I was born
A time
Without a thought in my mind
A time
Where I had fun and relaxed

A time where we all danced and drank
A time where we could weara tux and  dress

With these outfits
The color of
Gold 
White 
Light Blue
Yellow, Green
Purple

And these colors were nice and bold
They let me see the royal of having friends and family that I truly belong with
Now I hope I can go back
To that time
Which is the Renaissance.

SILENCE

-Bannah

Electricity danced through the air. Molecules abuzz, the sky filled with the stifling tension that comes before a storm. The darkness was impenetrable. The moon, shrouded by the swollen clouds that drifted lazily on the subtle wind, guaranteed a murky night. The type of night when evil runs free.

Almost as if inspired by the darkness, and embracing the wickedness it excites, the sky broke. A thundering explosion, the perfect shroud for the shattering cracks that accompanies a broken door. Feet thudded softly up the carpeted stairs. A startling white against the omnipresent black. Hinges whimpered softly into the night as the first streak of lightning flashed across the sky. As quick and fleeting as a heartbeat. A woman’s heart seemed to battle against her rib cage as she struggled to silence her shuddering breaths. Every exhale seemed like a scream into the pressing silence. A window smashed open from the force of the growing wind. Swirling and shrieking into the room like a wraith. The foot steps paused next door. The lightning flashed. The women held her breath as the door to her room inched open. She shrunk further back into the obscurity of her closet. The darkness no longer seemed the perfect veil for her to seek refuge under. The wind shrieked again, enticing the intruder further into the room. The figure, briefly illuminated by a crack of lightning, seemed to blend in. As if one with the shadows. A creature of the night. The women could no longer tell if he was in the room or if he was sliding ever closer. An eye, fleetingly illuminated in the keyhole, answered her question. The door was flung open, and the women opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. The knife across her throat saw to that. The blood spilled silently down her neck, a fluid shadow, seen only in the flashes. Forever tainting the white underneath.

A LETTER

Dear Lee R.,

She opened her mouth but no words came out.

Actually, let me clarify: no words were spake by she.

Words did come out, but not in the traditional sense. 

No, this woman was sick and vomiting. 

Vomiting all over the page in front of her.

But words came out, remember? So she was vomiting these words, onto a page, and thats what I meant to say in the first place.

It so happened that one of her friends was sitting next to her, and her friend too had been feeling a bit queezy as of late, and when the woman started vomiting words, so did she. And a domino effect started. 

There were other weak-stomached people there who joined in. They caught what the first two had got and soon the disease began to travel. Vomiting everywhere. Ew.

The symptons vary amongst those who have the disease, vomiting happens, so do loud "A CHOO"s, and sometimes a bit of blood and bile comes mixed with snot and puke. Some describe these symptoms as occurring "often" or "by-weekly" whereas others claim to be stricken by it but in reality have only sniffled and then rarely sneezed. The distinction exists, but diagnostics are hard to come by.

Anyways, its all very beautiful and awesome and only a little disgusting. The way I see it, if everyone just got the disease, vomit would be second nature and far less unappealing. As it is we just flush it down the toilet, without second thought of any usefulness. 

So back to this women... I think she is still sick.

If we could sign her a card of encouragement that'd be great! Just let me know when you have the card ready (I have no cash to buy a card with) , and then I will sign it.

Thanks so much!

THE MINSTREL

P.S. I would avoid F 31? if I was you.

NATALIA

Tsarina

Natalia decided that when the x-ray tech spoke, he’d say something wrong about the weather.  That’s how she would know that they were beginning. She read it in the stars--in the last three years she had become an expert in astrology, and had even invented some theories of her own.  If he called the weather correctly, they must never speak.  

He came through her department every Thursday between seven and seven.  Today was the fourteenth day she’d seen him. It was also the summer solstice which might bring her fortune.  

As she shuffled through paperwork, Natalia  glanced at the back of his head. It reminded her of the back of the President’s head, which was promising.  She found it stately, well - groomed, balding, and smug. It repulsed her in a most delightful way.

Jupiter and Venus said that Gregory-not Greg--would buy her earrings one day. (She didn’t know his name; only felt that it must be Gregory. In any case, it must not be Steve. ) He would open the box of glittering rocks and say, "Wouldn't they look lovely against your lace?" She would tell him why she hated lace; how her sister wore it on the wedding day that never should have been. He would apologize, throw the earrings to the side, take her in his arms, tell her how everything was right. No. That was too poetic. He would stare.  But it would be a good stare.

Gregory was pulling an old woman on a gurney off to the MRI machine.  Natalia thought about the president.  The president shouldn't wear blue; it made him look fatter than he already was. Gregory was thinner than pulled sugar and looked twice as brittle.  That made him superior. Natalia fanned herself.  Stop blabbering Natalia.  I'm sick of your blabbering, she told herself.

Gregory would charm the thoughts from her mouth like a cobra and then never put them back. He’d end the freeze that plagued her since the day when the breeze smelled like October even though it was May and Steve stood beside the sister in lace--but Natalia past is past. Don't remember the thickness of silence and the slow of time caused by panic when you read the stars and saw--Natalia,  why don’t you shut up for once?  How was it she chatter so inanely on the inside and be so shy? She could feel sweat threatening to carve tracks down her shield of make-up. Gregory must save her.

Funny the day should stick with her so--her horoscope had warned her.  She hadn’t taken the stars seriously until then

Natalia drank some water from a cup on the table. The heat of her hand worked to melt the ice. She put the cup down, overly aware of the grating ice.

The stars had said that they shouldn’t marry or take the plane to Macao.  The stars had known.  Steve had not been meant for Sarah; that’s why the plane crashed.  Natalia shook her head.  But no one had listened. Since she screamed that at the double-funeral, she had not spoken to anyone from her family.  Nor had her so-called friends understood; they thought that it was because she had been jealous of Steve. It was so unfair--that hadn't come into play at all, it was just an unfortunate circumstance. But the three year silence showed no sign of ending, and she was thousands of miles away now.  If only it were silence.         

No eraser for memories of pain.  She read that on a 6-word forum once. She almost made an account to enter the conversation. But she thought that someone she knew might be online.

Gregory was back with the empty gurney, struggling to maneuver it around a corner.

He caught sight of her watching him. His face trembled into a smile and her lungs inflated with hope, until he said, wiping sweat from his forehead.  

"Hot day, isn't it?"

She nodded and turned away.  He wasn’t fated to understand her tears.