Gori

fWednesday, May 16th Small,very sad town in Georgiam The Stalin museum, a revisionist historical site, attracts 25,000 visitors to Gori each year. There is no monument commemorating 400,000 murdered souls; necessary carnage providing nickel-plated bathroom fixtures for a luxurious railroad carriage. No tracks; loves, shoe size, a smell of bread in the kitchen, love on the sheets, are left. All gone for a man's belief; a handsome, almost priest, charismatic revolutionary, wielding a blinding bright future to those struggling out of a dark fecund past. Olga, our guide, transported me back to Czechosylvakia; impossible to reconcile collaboration: standing fast to grey moral beliefs for the story Brave untrue tales masking the sadness in of our hearts; why don't we ever choose the right door? The leader? Rocking horse winner; riding hard to insure a future never within reach. Time, Ozymandias, sand, sand, and more sand, glistening silica; polishing hopes and mirroring desires. A looking glass tells truth solely to the viewer. Hope necessitates massive renovation to vascular and aortal chambers. Blue and red drapes every battlefield; strange comforts: inflated glory.