Beginning with a Quote from Franz Kafka

. . . the streets empty, clean and quiet, somewhere an unfastened casement moves slowly, somewhere the ends of a cloth draped over a top floor balcony are fluttering, somewhere a curtain waves in an open window, otherwise there is no movement

as if a celebration had taken place or an invasion were imminent or
a huge question had been lowered into our midst and left us
looking at one another as if someone had the answer
but nobody does which is what we have long suspected
even though nobody would ever admit as much
therefore we have become accustomed to silence and suspicious
of one another suspicious and fearful and even though
we smile upon meeting the smile is a costume it is
a carnival we wear it as a response to being asked how we are
that question is a trap we are not well how could we be when
nobody wants an answer they just ask because it is expected because
it is a convention a routine a habit because it is something
to say when there is nothing else when the silence suggests
contentment had spread in a chain of embraces from lover
to lover as if this very day the fog had cleared and left melancholy
in its wake like a thief’s fingerprint

A Letter to Kafka

Dear Franz, excuse me for writing in daylight;
it’s a habit I can’t break. I know you have a window
with a view of the stars, but the fact is
I need help. I’ve developed a phobia to optimists.
Death is entertainment where I live and religion
has become a business. We can see the end
of the world from where we stand, and people just
want a better view. A little darkness
would go a long way, something perhaps from one
of your unfinished stories with injustice as a theme
that would leave us to find a way out.
I need advice. What do I tell a lady I hardly know
who sends a message to say I need to repent
my sins but won’t be specific when I ask her which ones?
We get religion knocking on our doors, religion
on bicycles, religion in chains and in leather, and we don’t
hear much about blessing the poor these days,
neither is peace very popular. Something is making
people angry; maybe it’s that anthem they need
special training to sing, whose notes are a symbol
of what few can reach in this country.
What I always appreciated about you is your sense
of humour, that relentless pursuit of absurdity
that turns out to be the way things are. Perhaps I need
to laugh more. I might make friends with whom to share
a vision of a country deceived into believing
democracy should be run by the wealthy. Living here
feels more and more like being a guest on a game show
where you guess your way to disappointment
and still receive your applause. That’s what matters
in the end it seems. Even when you fail to reach
the castle, when you’re the hunger artist down
to skin and bone, when you’ve lost more than you ever had,
been arrested for a crime that never happened
and subsequently declared guilty, guilty, guilty,
there is applause. So this is to say thank you
for the ghetto within, that ramshackle neighbourhood
nobody can destroy where everyone has a jackdaw
nesting in their insomniac heart.

David Chorlton was born in Austria, grew up in England, and spent several years in Vienna before moving to Phoenix in 1978. He has become increasingly fascinated by the drama of the Arizona landscape, and continues to explore it when he can, along with his wife Roberta, with a birding field guide close at hand. His newest published books reflect this concern for the natural world. They are Waiting for the Quetzal, from March Street Press, and The Porous Desert, from Future Cycle Press. More work, both paintings and poems, can be seen at: Web Site

Email: David Chorlton

Return to Table of Contents