Chick in Kiev

Adventures of an multilingual nebbish

[chickinkiev]

might fuck around and ask a priest about mrs cake

[chickinkiev]

im extremely sad

[chickinkiev]

cryptid (cat) in my yard

[chickinkiev]

i voted and shit. last time in a non decorative election too!! cant wait to live in an official, federal christofascist totalitarian state

[chickinkiev]

is there grishaverse tumblr cuz i just wanna talk about kaz/inej forever

[chickinkiev]

im reading some ww1 history and it's all just like "well then they mobilized the armies. and they couldn't just un-mobilize them, that would be so disorganized! so millions of people had to die." it's very frustrating!!!!

[chickinkiev]

perfection (1927)

[chickinkiev]

[godstiel]

its always Do you have a job and Do you have a boyfriend its never Hows your blog and How are your friends from your blog

[chickinkiev]

word

[chickinkiev]

what's up hoes it's 2022 and im returning as if from the Grave. count ruthven style

[chickinkiev]

On Appetite

At Brighton Beach, even the birds understand the importance of bread.

They swoop down in a barb-winged cloud and it vanishes in seconds.

The sun has come out for the first time in a month. You, you’re here to buy caviar

for a New Year in which so many hungry people will remain hungry or grow hungrier.

Russian trips, then sings on your tongue like a drunk returning home.

You recall the words for reminisce, coincide: vspominat’, sovpadat’, but they stick in your throat.

You have forgotten so much some parts of you went missing. Here in the marinated mushroom aisle

you gather a handful back. You go home clutching a tin of paddlefish roe,

rattling at height through the blazing December air over the el tracks, hungry for salt.

[chickinkiev]

Oh dear

Whenever I type "Google.com" into my Web browser, Google Chrome autocompletes it to this: goo.gl/qhlefb

...a Google search for this:

This has cracked me up privately for several months because... I think my Web browser knows me better than I know myself. Oh dear.

[chickinkiev]

On Rewriting

(with apologies to Yeats)

1.

When morning comes on with its promises, and hurts my eyes, I will be sleepless as I am always sleepless. Like a wrong thing, I sleep at daybreak, I hide my head under dawn's pale hem. While others dream new, whole, true dreams in darkness, I rouse, to gather threads of older dreams: like cloth of gold I lay them out before me, I have woven them myself, and stung my fingers on the gilt, and crushed my fingers in the frame. 2.  Now it is time to rend the pages, re- sew them, stitching and unraveling and stitching again. I must be Penelope at her loom, unweaving: I must be Abraham offering his son each night,  letting him die this time, reviving him in altered form.

Then I must hawk what remains from door to door, from city to city, saying, I have woven a cloth of gold, ask me my price; don't say  it is only sacking.

[chickinkiev]

La trahison (the betrayal)

When you find the blue- green beetle in the grass, it bites to wound. Then the jaw sinks back into a shell smooth as lacquer. The beast humps off through the dark yard.

Crushed grass-sap leaks into your knees, and as you rise you weep for the red-swelled gem on your thoughtless palm. What you learned then you will learn over and over: the blue and lustrous things you seek will hurt you, the damp sudden absence in the bed, lush, clumsy lies from well-shaped lips, the apple, pin-stuck, that leaves blood on your tongue. Each stab of rancor leaves its weal: even now you blow on your fingers, wait awhile before you touch crabgrass in the dark.

[chickinkiev]

Late August Pigweed Blues

Summer sieves to its end so fast it startles. White light slants down toward fall, gumming the heat-gouged street. Beads of clammy grime cling to my ribs:  Throughout the hot night shouts echo from the stoops. But it ends. No more redbrick and ivy, no cloistered classroom days for me again. I know I've tumbled past that rim.

But summer ends. I've built my life loose-bricked; the love I chose needs work, and further work, to carry on. Everywhere the burly leaves go fat with sun and green. Gone to seed, the pigweed stalks hurl their heads up through the walks.

Bare branches lurk through the weeks ahead, and shards  of conversation slice us up, draw blood. A stranger has crumpled my blue pillow. I don't know if it was me or you.

[chickinkiev]

on chasing the perseids

I want to chase stars on the LIRR after dark down to the lip of the sea and away from New York. “Commerce surrounds it with her surf,” Melville wrote. He wrote: "Who ain't a slave?"

My blood's up. I need a rest from the insular island of the Mannhatoes and its white nothing-light, and clouds.

But thunder's coming and a terrible rain. It’ll blot  the stars out. I wonder how far I’d have to go for a clear sky. White roof. White sky. I won't chase after the Perseids, on a train that slices billows into foam down to the warm sea, alone. But if I could I'd go south as far as I dared to watch that salt-dark water burn under a torrent of glowing air, and the cold wind batter your black hair.

[loveisforthebourgeoisie-deactiv]