The Old Hunger

A single serving of nothing contains 0.0% of Franz Kafka’s daily requirement for fat, protein, and carbohydrates. In addition, it lacks vitamins and minerals. Spoon as he might, Kafka can’t subsist on nothing alone. Yet must, for he’s grown fat starving himself of love.

Happy Meals started out as small cardboard houses that could be folded into castles that were easily crushed and thrown away. Kafka was still hungry. Happy Meals were Super-Sized to satisfy. It wasn’t enough. Happy Meals were childish. Sad Meals had to suffice.      

The girl on the cylinder of Morton’s Salt hurries home. She and her slim sisters spiral downward on grocery shelves across America. The spouts of the containers they cradle in their arms are open. Grains pour out behind them. Did Kafka mention that it’s raining?

Sand makes a road. Waves wade ashore and wash the grains away. The sand creeps back again. The sea becomes a faucet that won’t stop dripping, and the sand turns into a pebble in Kafka’s shoe. The wolf in grandma’s clothing smiles to find him hungry at her door.

The Inner Life 

Franz Kafka studies his portrait in the bedroom mirror. Displeased with the superficial fellow who faces him, Kafka decides to get undressed instead of dressed. He pinches the cuffs of flesh around his wrists, pulls on the sleeves of his arms, and yanks wrinkles, scars, and wattles over his head—it takes a real

effort—turning the garment of his skin inside-out. Always preferring to be on the safe side, Kafka tugs the tangled rag of integument back over his inmost self. Where did the soles of his feet go? Is this pink flap his scalp? The nail beds and cuticles sting as they slip awkwardly into place; his hair follicles feel uprooted.

Frank Kafka’s navel looks around like a bloodshot eyeball.