The other day, I found out that the infamous 16th century ascetic monk Ivan Vyshenskij -- the Girolamo Savonarola of Ukraine, who spewed bile at Renaissance learning, vainglorious Catholics, and other worldly vanities -- lived in the town where I was born. In his honor, here is a short poem:
Chasing tongue with vodka,
cognac and Akon at a disco called Versailles....
Rubber tubing cramps as the nurse administers the glucose,
useless, and days later my stained clothes sprout moldy tumors --
Lutsk.
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