My ship has no rudder, and it is driven
by wind that blows in the undermost
regions of death.
-- Franz Kafka, The Hunter Gracchus
Think of it as mockery of The Hunter Gracchus,
discussing his death in Riva, that men
and women are deathships, one plug
shy of the next world, leaving their cargo
wedged in cynicism. The Kafkan stare
is incendiary here, to burn the ghost,
reduce completely what has fingered oblivion
in safe, user-friendly words. Besides,
there is sense in everything: a prolepsis
of fate of marginal people.
sages of television, beyond
help, ship without a rudder, driven
by the wind, no closer to knowing
how to live. It's a ritual that makes nothing
happen, a romance where one is neither alive
nor dead, but rough heart, in limbo,
celebrating the latest scandal
and losing who we are.