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This is not the first time, K,
you felt like Joseph K or JFK,
Watching it all slip away down
the motorcade on a video replay
Over and over again all a mess
all a blur never get to
The bottom of this, or the top,
always somewhere in-between
Why are you so forgiving?
Each loose tap, shadow and squeaky board
is a habit-forming agent.
Does it come down to silly things like
dreading the thought of going through
the drawer and deciding
who owns what knife and which fork?
This is not the first time, K, you felt like
Helen K., not too blind to see that
"security is a superstition", but that's not
how you'd like it to be,
walking too slow to outrun the rain,
too fast to slow the passing cars,
shit I'm in the middle of nowhere,
somewhere in-between an angry lover and a payphone
and Mars,
name this feeling after water,
the canyons it carved in his face
through the windscreen, the voice
merged with the drum of the rain
and the tribal rhythm of the faulty muffler,
and the sawing of the worn-out wipers,
the silence that hung in the air after screaming
and, K, he seemed like a fragile little boy,
all small and shameful;
How do you turn this pity to hate,
How do you escape the confusion?
Why do you forgive?
Everyone looks for something to blame,
you smile at the stupidity, futility of you,
direct accusations -
the party,
the drink,
the drugs,
overwork,
just stress,
not enough sex,
was it something I said, or something someone else said,
or something someone else said that I said,
these things cut through your head, K,
Why are you so forgiving?
Each mutual friend or dinner with parents
tightens the grip of the circle,
Explain this to shadows or the water
disappearing down the plug-hole of the shower:
