Samizdat   The official stuff? All bullshit. We live for our samizdat — copied by hand, creased and smudged, streaked with candlewax in furtive gatherings, secret salons. At least we’re safe here, someone might murmur. For now. Stories typed on broken machines with fading ribbons, heedless of what is allowed or required. Grainy photocopies made from grainy photocopies when no one is looking. Plays where every part is whispered. Poems about beauty, forbidden fun, thoughts that can land you in jail, or worse. This is our literature, our oxygen. Give us the word. Samizdat keeps us alive.     © Michael Fleming Dummerston, Vermont January 2025