Existenz at Court

pinched in a parenthetical distinction

between legend and myth—

in cupped hands

we offer up as ransom

a short measure of history

(perhaps our own)—

evoking only the howls

and screeches of those

foot-stomping, thigh-slapping

black-clad motorcycle mamas

the Fates—

those ladies-in-waiting

with their horrorshow jones—

poor Kafka, dead at forty—

(Jesus, what a cop-out)—