There isn't, there won't be, there wasn't Poem by Martín Gambarotta

There isn't, there won't be, there wasn't
there wasn't, no, there isn't, there won't be,
nor would there've been if; there wasn't,
there isn't, there won't be, there
wasn't, ever, nor is there, nor can
there be, there isn't, nor should there have
been, there isn't, there wasn't,
there won't be any lines out of place
in the skull, the perfect curve
of the frontal bones,
there wasn't, there isn't, a better series than Kojak,
nor a more solid mask
than this solderer's faceguard
to pass the pruning of the
neutral night, there wasn't, a
neutral or clear night, there isn't a hammer that's
neutral or heavy, no, that hammers,
grabbing the handle of the hammer
to hammer with the hammer
the wood of the facts, there wasn't,
there isn't: Kojak sold his flat-tyred car
to some jackals, handed back his badge and gun
to the Greek Captain, the blacks threaten
to burn down a newspaper stand and don't;
there won't be, Cadáver, real
earthy coloured mornings
to pull the trigger, a sad trigger,
tense, that resists being triggered
at an enemy target,
there isn't, there wasn't, nor should there have been,
chalk to chalk round
the outline of the victim lying
face down on the hard ground;
there won't be, charcoal
lines in the sky,
lines of a tense and inflated calibre
black lines that cross other lines, at an oblique angle
forming creepers with other lines
that grow into lines
that get lost in the distance
striped with other curved lines, there wasn't,
there isn't, there wasn't no, there won't be, there wasn't,
nor was there to have been, there isn't, no.