This is Trotsky’s tribe and udder,
this is the universe shedding tears in armillaria.
As you lift, so you go,
whether you’re Lenin or Soloukhin.
Humanity is evidence that the stars are rat finks,
even the Lord knows that.
Tiny paroxysms flit across the face of Ahab-cum-Trotsky, Isaac aka Allotment, tiny fistulas, springs-and-wells, the Danube shallow, the Dniester shoaled. That crapper in the Udmurt village, where I dropped the latch made by their grandpa. I had gone there to meet my daughter’s relatives. I had no oriental rugs in my flat, no Aladdin lamps, and I didn’t even speak Hebrew, much to their dismay. And to my own dismay, I wasn’t a carpenter.
One leap is the ocean, another leap is the ocean. One nation is a leap, and not a very long one. One street is an ice pick. Did I say street? Hell, every lighted window! And who are we? The bandage on Trotsky’s forehead, the nails Tashtego used to nail the flag. We are the Lord, his soles, his lyrniks, and kill Biljo.
Mr. Leiderman’s drawing is reproduced here with his kind permission. Translated by the Russian Reader
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