Hello, How Are You?

this fear of being what they are:
dead.

at least they are not out on the street, they
are careful to stay indoors, those
pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets,
their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter.

their ideal neighborhood
of parked cars
of little green lawns
of little homes
the little doors that open and close
as their relatives visit
throughout the holidays
the doors closing
behind the dying who die so slowly
behind the dead who are still alive
in your quiet average neighborhood
of winding streets
of agony
of confusion
of horror
of fear
of ignorance.

a dog standing behind a fence.

a man silent at the window.

by Charles Bukowski

Comments (2)

This one's OK but in the right-hand corner you have a list of 'people who read bukowski'. How in the hell could Walt Whitman and William Blake have read him when both have been DEAD for quite awhile? And how could Tupac Shakur? That reject from Dr. Suess can't even READ!
true. and no one sees that they are trapped. they think they have everything. thing...that's the problem. their souls have been sucked out and they are trying to fill the empty place with things. impossible dream. can they dream having no souls?