The Master of Petersburg

 

                    in memoriam Arkadii Dragomoshchenko, 1946 - 2012 

New words spring up, you know,
the master said, in the spaces

between old words? 
I wanted to confirm, slow reader.

Pushkin’s apartment was closed,
the rough guide cheaper than the lonely planet

…Chaos instead of music! 

Pravda.

Be sure to get your prospekts in,
he remembered

though he had no futurist idea
of how to spell them.

Hey you!

We were on Haymarket.

We saw your hair way back there.

We needed perestroika.

*

The prospekt was Voznesensky.

We may broadcast revelations,
he seemed to think, publish data, 

bring the facts to bear

on holy virgins? wearing dresses
that barely cover their arses?

Even the skinny, I added,
the bowlegged, pimply,

speaking all too American English.

No tengo dinero.

Ah! In that case, sir…
On the bus.

I have lived with a dog, the master said, 
for fifty years.

Forty-five, she corrected.

I’m asking you, what do you pity?
Turning onto Liteiny prospekt.
 
*

The man with no past but a faithful retriever
had no time, spaciba

for the Stray Dog Cabaret?

If you’re a bitch,
then what is he? I ventured.

A tapeworm, she said, searching for his knee.
 
…Look where you’re going, man!

A New Jersey tourist.

We crossed the bridge
to the Savior on the Blood,

fish rotting in glasnost water.

If only a shadow would flit by.

You need eye movements
if you want to see, the master smiled 

and broke the Leningrad Symphony off

whenever the sirens sounded.