poem: the brothers karamazov. pt. 1 – fields.

oh! alyosha alyosha why do you insist on the sitting, the side-lining, the great country of this
nothingness has been brought down to you; cup it in the palms of your hands,
cup it! I drank russia like an after-party, the red spilled
all over my dress, my little virgin legs, my throat always clenching –up! — when I try
to think ahead, plan. my head has been stirred by a wooden spoon. can I blame you, watching
all the peasants sprayed out on the ground, desperate to talk
to god? at least you can talk to your father, alyosha; it is years before he
dies and you go mad — is that how the book ends? not sure,
I am only on page seventy-five. soon I imagine you will have the beasts of the oat-and-
flaxen fields crawling out of your head, realism got you nowhere, but the ancient and mad
pageantry of the peasants comes for
us all. I’m sure the university students would disagree, although hell has already got them
by the teeth. my sister has six-thousand in her savings account and she won’t
spend money, she starves herself, tolstoy worked in the fields like any other
man, the dust from the fields creeping inside his boots, his trousers, his lily-white-ikonic
cotton shirt. the dust sits inside your chest like a mold, like a blessing. I do not have the thirty-five
dollars necessary to buy a lamp, I cannot blame my father for leaving (me) and my mother
for (likely) wanting to. the socialist/spiritual ecstasy of making monster of everyone but
yourself, if I had run russia and cut down elon musk I would have
(of course) done it better; I am a university student, hell
has me by the teeth.

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