Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there’s no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

- Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski has been one of my greatest inspirations since…. forever, actually. Everything he writes hits the nail on the head. Someone once said to me, during one of our random poetry appreciation sessions, that Charles Bukowski has written about the world. And I agreed, remembering a review I’d read in a book or something saying that all there is to be written has already been written by him.

“as your poems go into the thousands you
realize that you’ve created very
little”