Archive
06/05/12 - (1)
More or Less
The life he lives is an existence of "What if?"s, "Why"s, "For what?"s, A second-to-hour-to-day-to-day delay of decision-making Calculated to justify his being or jettison his flesh and bones, He that caterwauling, fat-splattering ash-ghost of a Jude Who yet stalks the stalactite-vaulted halls of his personal Hadamar, To which his "undesirable," "degenerate" psyche was originally relegated, Way back in the flame-darkened first half of the last century, While millions were designated as vermin to be exterminated — A medieval Black Plague blight of buboes, on the pristine visage Of all towheaded, cobalt-eyed Third Reich Germans of Aryan ancestry, Privileged with purifying and perpetuating the Master Race.
Whether he actually, factually, statistically survived or died, then, Remains, to this ambiguously late date, impossible to ascertain, Since his does-and-doesn't, vapor-and-mirrors existence Wears only the nameless number he was given, as a deathly birthright, Displaying it, on the left forearm of his emaciated body, like an address, The one recognizable signifier that identifies his soul With that time of his endless descent into the fiery down below, Which was sputtering, groaning, shrieking, howling, moaning, With "What if?"s, "Why"s, "For what?"s — That horrific passage of his when he was just a kid, in Nazi Berlin, Before the pacifying baptism of gas left him intact, more or less.
06/05/12 - (1)
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