Andrew MacArthur

Siberian Shaman in Oregon The whiskey that makes you drunk too quickly, the girls all pretty (eyes congealing with contempt), the buses cluttered with advertisements. You're a Hollywood Russian in the West, I say to my self; bathe, play mediocre chess, smoke mild cigarettes- only my guttural accent seems authentic. In Moscow I was trained in main-frames, nothing else- nothing of life here. Now a series of fractions curls down to a declining yield-curve- on the Inter-net, tiny nudes every pixel immature, younger than your youngest sister. In Middle-European script I list what I like about life in the United States: the Swimsuit-and-Lingerie model, plump chicken dropping off the bone, church-bells at odd times. ********************************************** Flavors Lonely Persian men play chess all night at the side-walk cafes where mint and cinnamon are burning flavors. They seldom wash, but favor costly cologne. Sometimes they wander to Indian casinos and topless bars. To some it might be utopia- what I might expect from an academic life. Well-kept campus lawns, a laid-back management style; job security and willowy co-eds (so serious and so admiring). Older now, I find a way of my own. This morning's breakfast- the last conservative journal and the first cigarette; brown bread, boiled eggs, black tea scented with plums.

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