Foreign Thoughts on St. Petersburg, formerly Leningrad, formerly St. Petersburg, formerly wet lands. mh 6/2000 In subway tunnels world-class musicians play to the rhythm of metros and the masses- unsure who is riding who; Pretty girls, holding hands, laugh and pass by in high heels- but their glazed eyes, begging to become bright, reveal that perhaps they wish the escalators would deal them better deals.... And the escalators, carrying the weight of the city, How do they feel? Up on the surface Sellers sell and prostitutes proposition; The poor painter's son purchases porn at a kiosk; Dreamers, as always, dream. The sickle distorts to dollar signs, the hammer falls silent to the dead's cries. * * * * * * * * And the Mafia, killing each other, makes money with entrepreneurial guile And lovers, filling each other, make love with no state-sanctioned style And fathers, killing themselves, don't know what to do And mothers, filling empty shelves, aren't sure what to do And children, scribbling lines in dirt, pray to seesaws not to get hurt And two dogs, muzzled by their owners, try to bit the other while street-cleaners sweep and try not to smother in this bright, grimy St. Petersburg air * * * * * * * * Trash cans begin to fill And the ¨mad? ragged old lady on Nevsky kneels, crosses herself, prays to her icon, and takes money from passerby's who pass her by like some bloated sidewalk crack Cable cars cross kanals carrying babushkas carrying their grandchildren; that one there, wiping ice cream from the kid's mouth, looks like someone I know from home.... At the corner beggar children, poorly pretending to wish they were never born, push an almost bluesy-beat through their accordions while billboards bombard them with the new Propaganda: "Pepsi, Pepsi, MTV!" In the park on a bench a grandmother comforts her granddaughter: same woes; new clothes. Through the windows of bars you see sweaty thighs and thwarted tries dancing to muted music: anything for a chance at Russian romance.... * * * * * * * * An old man wipes his nose; An old woman sells a rose; And Misha, your favorite bartender, and, no doubt, philosopher to boot, out of the blue asks Who knows how the dandelion grows? Is there really a God who decides where each will blow? Ah, but anyhow, across the river's bridge lovers float and dote upon the other, their eyes, skating figure-eights unto infinity, seeming to say "No one knows the depths of a soul, but I, I know the lightness of my lover's lips, and that, I think, is enough...." * * * * * * * * Familiar faces now greet you, Formidable vodka shots no longer defeat you. "You want spot?" Yes, I want sleep But the air is still bright.... Artists breath freely See that one there? the one with the scraggly beard and spasming eyes? Watch him paint this breathtaking shot of the river Neva, that beautiful, polluted vein that carries your thoughts to the Gulf of Finland, where you sit, relax, and ponder how the waves eternally wane and wax: two crashing and becoming one and the same, one splitting into two with no one to blame. The sea gull, too, ponders the waves' white hands while below, fish, catching themselves, wage war in those not-so-distant wet lands.