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.


She screamed
the sirens stopped.

Marionettes hang
from strings

an arm
a battle

I spit
into the
eagle’s mouth

My scars
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.
previous page     contents     next page


Post a Comment

<< Home