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no answer (the melon seller)

A shiny black van pulls up, wheels skidding on gravel. Five, maybe six men step out all at once. They wear black t-shirts and army fatigues. Their heads are shaved, slick with sweat in the afternoon sun. Their arms are huge, squeezed into those shirts a few sizes too small. All at once they circle a fruit stand by the road. It is made of plywood, held together with a few screws. One good sneeze could level it. Rows of torpedo shaped melons sit on bulging shelves, below them a cage full of watermelons. The men yank smartphones from their pockets, taking pictures, making calls. I assume they are some covert team that extorts vendors, either sending them home and destroying the fruit or worse. I somehow expect the man does not have a permit and the right papers to sell anything. In Russia, you need permission to do just about anything. There are no five year olds with lemonade stands here. 
I cross the street, distancing myself as I glimpse the men between the cars and trolley buses tha…

Christmas card from Kurskaya

heavy weighs the crown

The First Night

Time

no post this week

rumashki

tiny movements

Cracker Jack

black on black

"None of us are Free"

rocks, coins and angels

Studencheskaya!

the taste of coins

torn

the balcony was open

колготки (tights)

Mexican blankets and clowns

a late birthday in New York

from plastic cups

сорок один (forty one)

Postcards from late summer

jholtei ghorka (the yellow slide)

хлеб (bread)

How I surrendered to Northern Italy

the midnight sun and the white crow

лица жизни (the street of life)

the electro-train from Domodedovo

a wedding

the irony of seeds

позже (later)

The Bubble Boy

leading the donkey into the metro

пертсовка (pertsovka) and the happy worker

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best personal blogs