3292. JUST OUT OF PETERSBURG

JUST OUT OF PETERSBURG
My mind recalls a hundred things.
My mind is filled with a million thoughts,
and I remember a few as well - each vivid
but 'just passing through', as the 'so-to-say'
crowd would utter. Why am I facing the
Gulf of Finland, just looking out from some
Petersburg scat - a paranormal fog, a
slithery eel of creeping light that now,
alone itself, barely illumines this
cavernous station for trains, which,
in themselves, seem as reluctant
to move as I do? The language
I am hearing is itself struggle
enough to listen to.
-
In my own country, we have small
music halls, auditoriums, as it were,
where people sit to listen. People,
filled with salt and sugar, nod and
bob to what the sounds direct
them. Not here - enormous
patchulated music halls
infringe on space and time,
forcing vast musics on all
those open and unaltering
musical ears.
-
Well, it is said, there is little
difference anyway. Perhaps.
But I have come by train to
this far and barely electric
place to take my spot behind
a bass. And here I am, now
silent - or just as silent as
History is - without a real
story to tell, yet filled with
thoughts and lore and tales,
looking out towards the
Gulf of Finland.