He had not dipped his feet in ink
before entering the forum.
He had not entered through the second-floor window
even once.
He had worn no hammer around his neck.
He had buried no sandwich under the pines.
He had not traced a headstone with the tip of his tongue,
nor had he the intention!
He spoke no nocturne.
He had taken no photograph
of a Mughal emperor.
He had not once stood backwards in the elevator.
He had not once been a widespread famine.
Kafka writes (The Zurau Aphorisms #69)
Theoretically, there is one consummate possibility of felicity: to believe in the indestructible in oneself, and then not to go looking for it.
Sturg gave me the book of Kafka aphorisms, and then I wrote this!
The foremost question is this: by what name shall one call one’s master? For in the choosing of the name, one specifies the approach with which one looks the master in the eye. Does one laugh? Or does one look down in awe? in subservience? in devotion? in love? As of yet there have been only two ways of looking at one’s master. In the eye with laughter, or by sneaking a glimpse upwards from under the bridge of one’s brow. Is there not some name with which we might take the matter seriously?
MY CROOKED BEARD
that lead me astray!
MY crook’d beard
you smell of NEGLECT (a misspelling of KOLKATA)
My crook’d beard
Keeps me home alone!
My crucked beard!
FLAKES
away the night!
My crooked beard, where are you pointing me tonight
while the moon waxes awkwardly,
Rises too soon
and shines too bright
In the middle of afternoon!
FATE is a nighttime indulgence!
The moon 15/18ths full and 6.5/26ths empty
as is my store of desirejuice!
MY crooked beard!
I renounce you
EVEN AS YOU CLING TO MY FACE
You will scratch no more tonight
Though you will cling to my face
What could I possibly EAT
on a night such as this?
I AM TIRED OF DIGESTING MY OWN FOOD.
Instead, I will follow
MY crooked beard
to the edge of the EARTH
(which may or may not be launching an infitada againsts its human parasites, the great Warming revolution that drives us all to death with lust. Millions at risk, millions more blissfully unborn.)
NO I WILL NOT SHAVE!