The Crunch

too much too little
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
thought of.

who put this brain inside of me?
it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.

it will not say
"no."


Charles Bukowski. Love is a Dog From Hell

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Johnny Carter veía a Dios a través del tiempo. Y el tiempo a través de la música.


Las flores son las miradas de los que han muerto
Galdós
 
 

No he vuelto a la calle Feria
ni al camino lento de mi abuela
con una muleta firme,
cortando rosas
de los jardines.
Esa muleta negra y gris
hacía el ruido inquieto
del plástico recio.
En él se escuchaban la guerra civil,
la miseria antigua,
la oxidada silla de ruedas de Rafael
como sombras congénitas
que no se van nunca.
Los jardineros municipales
nunca le reprocharon
que los sábados cortara
flores sin nombre
para sus nietas.
 Con ella se fue
la escasa luz de Cabo Carmona
y mi causa de amor en Alcolea.
Regresaron los jardineros uniformados
y su reino de orden y silencio.
Yo no he vuelto a la calle Feria
desde entonces.
Ahora huele a la soledad
de unas flores huérfanas,
a una belleza de colores tristes
que ninguno de los vecinos comprende.

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