Discombobulated


  1. My doom smiles at me, by Charles Bukowski

    there’s no other way:
    8 or ten poems a
    night.
    in the sink
    behind me are dishes
    that haven’t been
    washed in 2
    weeks.
    the sheets need
    changing
    and the bed is
    unmade.
    half the lights are
    burned-out here.
    it gets darker
    and darker
    (I have replacement
    bulbs but can’t get them
    out of their cardboard
    wrapper.) Despite my
    dirty shorts in the
    bathtub
    and the rest of my dirty
    laundry on the
    bedroom floor,
    they haven’t
    come for me yet
    with their badges and their rules and their
    numb ears. oh, them
    and their caprice!
    like the fox
    I run with the hunted and
    if I’m not the happiest
    man on earth I’m surely the
    luckiest man
    alive.