Spring 2024 - Recrudescence

Poems

or the latvian laborer who had slaved for the master class and he’d probably think, fuck this, and hit that asshole – call him jurgen/yuri/huck with his oar, and his oar would break over the dude’s broken skull, and our latvian jim, call him toms would sit down on his raft and resignedly float out to sea, he’d float across the whole damn baltic maybe shivering a bit, our hardy toms eating raw fish, drinking the wind and cheekily ask for asylum in sweden which he’d get because the swedes once invaded latvia and feel guilty about it, maybe he meets an open-minded swedish woman and has some woke-ish swedish children who learn a bit of latvian from their odd, throwback father and come back one day to the mythical fatherland to wander the streets of old town where it feels like you’re walking on a mōbius strip

winding around and around but always on the same side you hope it’s the right side but how do you measure the moral curve of history?

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