We do not put the hurricane to trial
of Mr. Gregor Samsa, where he lay dead
turned into a monstrous vermin with
an apple lodged in his back. We wouldn’t
have known of it if Kafka hadn’t been
unkind enough to make the world
into a ball and roll it into Gregor’s
room. Kafka, why did you?
Bio: Kush is in his twenties. He has been writing poetry for five years. He is a Dylan-worshipper and a recent convert to the faith. A beer lover, he enjoys reading Bukowski and other contemporary poets. He works with a consulting firm in Bangalore, India.