(after Gottfried Benn)
The man kept a ledger.
Not of debts—
of appetites.
Jets in the logbook.
Mansions by the hour.
Children,
filed under “Sundries.”
Each name:
a weightless giant.
A judge.
A priest.
A president with a nervous tic.
They paid in currency
and silence.
The girl was fifteen.
Later, fourteen.
A correction in pencil.
The island—
white stone, fake Greek.
Plastic gods by the pool.
Glass eyes on every wall.
No one saw anything.
He was found
in a cell.
They say the cameras blinked.
Two guards forgot how time works.
The bones broke
wrong.
A shame.
Now the list circulates
like a dirty joke.
Some names blacked out.
Some misspelled.
Most ignored.
History?
A press release.
Justice?
A clerical error.
Only the flesh remembers.
Only the grave is honest.
