Τετάρτη, 8 Φεβρουαρίου 2012

Perhaps if they were our deaths would not be so sad




the crunch by Bukowski
          too much too little
  1. too fat
    too thin
    or nobody.

    laughter or
    tears

    haters
    lovers

    strangers with faces like
    the backs of
    thumb tacks

    armies running through
    streets of blood
    waving winebottles
    bayoneting and fucking
    virgins.

    an old guy in a cheap room
    with a photograph of M. Monroe.

    there is a loneliness in this world so great
    that you can see it in the slow movement of
    the hands of a clock

    people so tired
    mutilated
    either by love or no love.

    people just are not good to each other
    one on one.

    the rich are not good to the rich
    the poor are not good to the poor.

    we are afraid.

    our educational system tells us
    that we can all be
    big-ass winners

    it hasn't told us
    about the gutters
    or the suicides.

    or the terror of one person
    aching in one place
    alone

    untouched
    unspoken to

    watering a plant.

    people are not good to each other.
    people are not good to each other.
    people are not good to each other.

    I suppose they never will be.
    I don't ask them to be.

    but sometimes I think about
    it.

    the beads will swing
    the clouds will cloud
    and the killer will behead the child
    like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.

    too much
    too little

    too fat
    too thin
    or nobody

    more haters than lovers.

    people are not good to each other.
    perhaps if they were
    our deaths would not be so sad.

    meanwhile I look at young girls
    stems
    flowers of chance.

    there must be a way.

    surely there must be a way that we have not yet
    though of.

    who put this brain inside of me?

    it cries
    it demands
    it says that there is a chance.

    it will not say
    "no."