If the Accident Will

Become a non-person.
Not many words come now—
I think of how useless death is,
and so on to infinity.
Clocks and calendars.
(I believe those, too.)

I have this disease:
to talk and remember.
Open spaces. A trafficker
in wonderful dialogue
made in exchange for rain.

Stories on a roll
of wallpaper, I learn by going
where I have to go.
The present—short, jumbled, jangled;
how much is mine to keep?
Never say anything ever again,
except for the birds.

-Shloka Shankar

Source: A remixed poem composed from select lines and phrases from Chapter 1 of Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut.

Shloka Shankar is a freelance writer from Bangalore, India. She loves experimenting with Japanese short-forms of poetry, as well as found/remixed pieces alike. Her work has recently appeared in Otoliths, Infinity’s Kitchen, Poetry WTF?!, Lines + Stars, and elsewhere. Shloka is also the founding editor of Sonic Boom.