At The Politik Republican

Musky soviet books and caffeine-free instant bitter toxified vacuum dried coffee remnants and ideas ideas ideas: the realm of Politik and cider, cacophany and eclectic bears dancing in duck-told Black & White ballet personification. The spoon jumped over the moon and ran away with the dish. One finds himself in a courduroy blazer in some Caucasus Eastern-European country fighting over political tyranny and strife in a three-times varnished cafe table and wooden chair, drinking vodka and tea from among the somnabulent light reflecting off the late evening snow burying window sills, slowly, mercilessly, in Stalinist-sacrilge mounds. Mounds and mounds of it sleeping, unaware, or if not that, submissively letting it cover all but the filthy windows of the grocery-turned-cafe. Black spots and white spots, who is to care? One snow, the other ash, grit, bits of unpaved road, unpaved life lived, strived, and beaten all the way to hell. The egalitarian life can only be found here where it is really needed. Where it cannot be heard. Where when it is heard it is responded to with red-striped papers, red-veiled women, red-paved backs, crimson-inked fingers. Yes, the poverty-ridden academic, tatooed blood-handed in political blasphemy, a fight for resources where none are had. Or, once had, taken from those who destroyed the pilgrimages of those before them. Biting, as heads from Dante's middle purgatory, chewing their way up the ranks in a plethora of inscisors, flesh and eyeballs. Hair and red mouths clawing at existence. Such is the Politik Republican. A front for an entrance into the worlds of the Middle Cacuasus, the crossroads of the world. A back entrace out of Socialistic barbarism to the liberalistic iconogrpahy of a new communism, only to replace one grizzly oligarchy with another. Blind elephant men leading the blind.

The new snow falls. The young academics at the window seats scowl, thrust fingers at much-abused pamphlets. A journalist walks in, bundled in a black trench, a little too-lightly dressed for the deep, merciless Eastern Eupropean winters. No one notices. Trosky-hair and turtle-rimmed glasses provokes another argument among his scholarly associates which ensues violently for a few seconds. Then another tremor. The earthquake finally settles and the dim light of the cafe gradually reveals the presence of the observer.