Keith Polette


Kafka Calling

Kafka called, said, ‘visit Borges.’
‘But you’re both dead,’ I said.
‘So what?’ he said, ‘go.’

Hitched a ride on a flight of crows
angling south,
landed in a maze of streets,
everyone in masks, their eyes
rolling like thunder,
hailed a cab, felt like I was
crawling inside an egg,
passed by some buildings beginning to panic,
came to a lurching stop,
luckily I had a bag of raspberries,
knocked on the door — smooth
as the back of a violin — was
greeted by Borges, or someone becoming Borges,
who brought me into the library
where, above a sleeping panther,
books were singing on the shelves.



Echoes

She screamed
until
the sirens stopped.

Marionettes hang
from strings
                tonight.

an arm
a battle
                both
                               lost

I spit
into the
eagle’s mouth


My scars
are
my stories.




Keith Polette publishes poetry, haiku, haibun, and haiga in a variety of print and online journals; his book of haiku, The New World, is a Red Moon Press publication. He has also published books and articles in the areas of literacy criticism, Jungian studies, and education. He lives and writes in El Paso, Texas.
 
 
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