March 15, 2017


Filed under: kagapoems — ABRAXAS @ 9:30 am

He’s always laconically late. But he always arrives.
Most of what he’s achieved in life is based on this fact
in combination with the ace up his sleeve: He never disa
grees. Not even when he was getting tortured. Not even then.
His torturers in fact became quite fond of him. He screamed
a few times, but that was understandable under the circum
stances. He gave nothing away. They respected that.
They always lost respect for anyone that spoke.
That ratted. What they never found out was
that the reason he never said anything
was because he knew nothing. He
was entirely unconnected to the
rebels. The hipster guerilla
outfit he wore was a fa
shionista statement.
He was always
ahead of the pack
like that. When the torturers
staged their own tactical defeat
and placed the guerillas centre stage
they legitimized the staging by allowing
the people to vote. The foregone conclusion
was fistuck. You could vote, yes, but the choice
was between the best of the worst, and the worst,
and, indeed, the worst of the worst and those even more
worser than the worst of the worse. The torturers called him
up after the elections and offered him a post at the top echelon
of state. They felt they could trust him. He was someone who
kept his mouth shut, someone who did not break. He said
he would think it over, asked them to call him back the
next day. He fingered the finely stitched hemp cloth
of his guerilla jacket. Walked into the kitchen wh
ere his mother was preparing his dinner. He
smiled at her, kissed her on the top of her
head and said, softly, “I’ve arrived.”

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