my life by Steve Calamars

right now is
check-engine lights
and disappointed

a lean muscular
physique and a
bearded face

i feel more like
a fighter than
a writer

pumping out pushups
over prose
6-mile morning runs
and shadow-boxing
in the park

kafka's death and
genius stretched out
across my brain like
the strings of a violin

my own pen touching
the page gentle as a bow

making a music that
never really escapes the
echo of his own . . .

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

It's a difficult task for a poet to riff on Kafka. Many poets have drowned in writing about the ineffable great writers/thinkers who leave deep graffiti in our brains. The metaphor is touching, the ending perfect. You pulled it off.

Joseph Hargraves


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