Beautiful Women Dance
at Tsar Alexander II’s Funeral
& Other "Necessary" Fables
The basis of optimism is sheer terror. -- Oscar Wilde
Saint Petersburg
March 13, 1881/March 1, 1881
Imagine you are the Pole Ignacy Hryniewiecki
and one assassin of Tsar Alexander II of Russia.
You are one of several who mortally wound
the liberal Russian leader with home made
grenades. You die during your act of terror.
Historical transparency may seem a far fetched
leap across impossible states of mind.
We can make it simpler, if we are optimists,
and wish to portray death with more humble signs.
We can craft smaller roles for terror in our escapade.
2.
My world view was boundless last month.
On the fourth day after I sailed out of New Netherland
into this place called New Spain. Make no mistake.
I was once an inept President of the United States.
Terror was hopeful and my bounty was extremely
valuable. In the year 1655, I with my Dutch patriot
Gov. Kieft have killed most of the savages who
dwell on the east side of the Great River. They,
enraged, rose in the spirit of the Algonquin tongue
in turn to murder all Europeans on the west bank.
Our small party could not protect them. We failed.
My view constrained, I set sail dressed over
my deerskin uniform filled with stars and decorations
for future imagined victories and forfeited wars.
I met a monster there. She had tracked my lights
for decades. She said I murdered her lover when
he splashed mud on my shoes. She claims I had
my men kick him to death for simply making
my uniform dirty. It was more. He laughed when
I entered the room, and his muddy feet were an
affront to my nature and any gentleman.
3.
She was lovely and bizarre, and I almost lost her several
times before she grew away from her tree and slipped
in my pockets so I would never forget that first time
when she wiggles under my hands, and at 3 feet tall
she was child like but the unexpected physical
treasures of her body made for remarkable terror.
I love fear as it rages over my own disguise.
Count her beautiful fingers. There are ten times
ten, and with 100 she can open doors from all directions.
What good is that? She is hideous my man says.
She is shunned, but when she walks into a room,
every one applauds, with me self at the head of
the armies of her admirers, she cannot deny worship.
Few could explain the contradiction. Those who knew
the secrets whispered them in corners striking their
knives into wooden barrel heads to portray their bravery.
They said do not look her straight in the eyes. Never
touch her unless she invites, and then be sure,
she is not mocking your fake, maudlin seduction.
She hates men. She loves women, and next day
she will be seen in the arms of a handsome man.
Her hundred hands caress him, and her wide mouth
filled with rapacious teeth sucks at his shoulder, biting
the bones without rupturing the skin. She has perfected
violence and when the winds blow in winter the snow
will swirl around her, and melt before it touches her skin.
I cannot imagine her, and oaths cannot be raised to protect
your honor from the normal failures of daily lives
on our historical quest, in this experiment in history, I
will dance with the most beautiful of royal women
at the ball planned for the week after the murder of the tsar.
He doesn’t die, and was warned away. In New Netherland
Kieft sleeps too long and is murdered one morning leaving
his brother's brothel they created using women who had
lost their husbands and fathers on the ocean journey.
They made them work for their passage until one hiding
behind the church fence jumped him and slit his throat
as she had done to her father when she was twelve.
She can dance, and for years had worked public houses
missing her loving father who often had shared her bed
until she met a man with hope who suddenly died half
way cross the passage from fear. He fell overboard
when she kissed him too hard when he was sick
from some affliction of bile or weak nature and he had
sought ocean air to cure his contrary nature, and she
tired of such poor a prospect knew the terror was at hand.
Fantasy often has an illogical path and conclusion.
How would you make any live a better song as chorus
for every church in every land in Christendom?
True terror must be believed to win the fucking game.
The dance ended too early and Princess Sofia found her
Officer in a delicate condition with one of her maids. She
had no choice. She simply touched him at his collar
and he choked to death as she beheld his ordinary nature.
That night the Captain of the ship bound her in irons
after having his way with her, and she more experienced
than most simply didn't resist, and in fact enjoyed it.
He didn't like that response, and he sold her for a slave.
