stillfugue

Yesterday, a man from Western Kansas
at our gathering, wanting to show how kingly he is.
I welcome him, sure, but I don’t want a king who ignores serfs.

We were serfs in a circle, longing to tell our stories,
but the king shook his head, pushed back his hairline,
stared at his shoes. The king was proud,
having something evil in front of him, something dying
by the king’s throttle, something making the king shine.

In nasty blunders, some told him he was miraculous
with such a brilliant uniqueness. It went around sick like this,
and the king continued to regret his presence at our gathering,
dismissing us and the boredom we brought to him.
Perhaps karma soaked him with hatred of our souls
because the hatred seemed to poison his own soul.