MY NAME’S KAFKA
Mel Waldman
My name’s Kafka and I’m on trial for secret
crimes never revealed to me. Yet how can I
be a criminal if no crime’s been committed?
Of course, you claim I’m in denial, as I sit in
a dark rectangular cell and contemplate the
total chaos of the universe, especially the
haphazard existence of human beings. Still
in the labyrinth of my mind, I hear the distant
sounds of a majestic Stradivarius, and the
plucking of random strings producing the
sweet harmony of chance.
And although you say I’m guilty of an
unknown heinous crime, condemning me to
life imprisonment, being Kafka, I dream of
metamorphosis, and when I listen to the
sacred sounds of violins, I fly through prison
bars, and far away, vanishing in the turquoise
sky, grotesque being that I am, I am also
beautiful, like the invisible strings of beauty
flowing gently through the fabric of the
universe, secretly embracing, rushing slowly
to the Void.
