By Charles Bukowski
from The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills (1969)
these things that we support most well
have nothing to do with us,
and we do with them
out of boredom or fear or money
or cracked intelligence;
our circle and our candle of light
so small we cannot bear it,
we heave out with Idea
and lose the Center:
all wax without the wick,
and we see names that once meant
like signs into ghost towns,
and only the graves are real.
when I go to other countries, the languages I do know aren’t really all that needed, but when I take a bus here I can’t understand WTF anyone is saying these days.
try not to look at pictures of Rethugs and Tea Baggers.
it is really all about the distribution of money and lack thereof.