At the Circus

I found myself stranded without a map or compass, a weekend sailor shipwrecked in the middle of history, no place anyone would choose on their own to go, home to shit talkers, freaks, depressives, religious nuts, and sociopaths, including one with a special  interest in Kafka and his twice broken engagement to Felice and another who took my phone and all my money and then, as if we had been intimate, shared with me a sort of postcoital cigarette and the secret of how clowns get inside very small cars in very large numbers.



True History

It feels a lot like a Monday, faces on the street and at the office twisted in a grimace. The moment you step away everything changes. People scream, “Hitler should come back and gas you!” Your true history is scratched out, replaced by libels. Accused of aiding and abetting morbid introspection, you’re forced not only to walk on your knees, but also to wear a crown of thorns in public for easy identification. Some of those watching will be turned by government decree into superhumans, others into lamp shades. A licensed therapist assures those in need of assurance that it’ll be alright either way. 



ARS POETICA

If you write a poem

And no one publishes it,

Does it make a sound?