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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 7, Number 2, June 2013


Anatoly Kudryavitsky
Dublin, Ireland

Marlboro Town

“People are excellent advertisements of ideas,” a cigarette cowboy lets out a small chuckle mixed with a puff of smoke. “We use them as signboards. Welcome to Marlboro town.”

The afternoon darkens into evening. The crimson sun droops down in the West highlighting the façades of buildings and some country folk hanging low overhead outside saloons and shops. The way they smile is supposed to help the visitors to tell the ones from the others.

There are no visitors around, though. Good old boys are quietly rocking on their lassos and exchanging words, rather melancholically.

“Cig cowboys won't go on forever,” a man named Winston sweats. “They have all kinds of diseases.”

“And too many private jokes, which is also sickness,” his pal Kent ruminates.

The nearby hills are obscured by smoke. The winds have dropped, and the bushes stand stock-still while a Camel crosses the painted poster with the Montana desert.

crows gather
in the sycamore tree
blood moon



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