Saturday, October 17, 2020

13,166. WHILE I SIT WITH KAFKA

WHILE I SIT WITH KAFKA
He seems to know all those little
things I miss:  What to call the
Magistrate behind her back, how 
to zoom the lens that shows the
new prisoner's face. We sit on a
bench, somehow shackled together;
his arms around my legs, my arms
stuffed into a hole in the wall. A soft
machine whirs, and the gentle buffer
turns to, soon, a gritty abrasive sander
which begins ripping my flesh. We
laugh, and it only gets worse.


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