But he does not. He is devoured by weeping. He crumbles in my arms, the
tears engulfing both his eyes, ungluing the adhesive bandages and
loosening the gauze. It falls. His triangular rib cage trembles, his
inert leg twitches, and his absent eye, and all his offspring that are
strewn across the city weep through him and the long years and his
father, who is happy he was shot and the wall, the only witness to the
anguished nights of Maurice.
And I weep with him. I, too, weep with him. Together.
The Suffering of Being Kafka
Poetry
Of Healing and Abuse
Our Love Alivid
by Sam Vaknin
Our bloated love alivid
at the insolence of time
protests by falling in,
involuntarily committed.
You are the sadness
in my sepia nights.
I am in yours.
We correspond across
our dead togetherness.
Moi Aussi
by Sam Vaknin
I need to know you
even as I never know my self
that phantom ache
of amputated innocence.
You,
the stirrings of a curtain, dust
settling on sepia cukoo clocks
covers obscuring.
Perhaps one day you will become
a benign sentence
an agency
through which to be.
Cutting to Existence
by Sam Vaknin
My little brother cuts himself into existence.
With razor tongue I try to shave his pain,
he wouldn't listen.
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