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-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.


~Bukowski

I so hope that you have a fulfilling weekend Sandra. We really must talk soon!!!

The Fact

After surviving suicide
one receives unsolicited advice
and tires of the good-hearted
who demand to know "Why?"
After a serious attempt
one comes home to 4 week old plates
of spinach, and tomato sauce, flies,
and milk scum on glasses. Your
towels are sandpaper stiff,
sending mold spores to all clothes
in the stinking heap. After failing at
suicide we are embarrassed to own Sylvia Plath
and Anne Sexton books. I am more ashamed
of becoming a cliché than I am of having lived.
When one wakes up after swallowing
320 Vicodin one must be prepared
for the busy-bodies of wellness
examining gestures as if they were portents.
They wait for you to speak in tongues.
After failing at suicide one tires
of explaining and listening to theories
of self-aggression. You want to
eat a good meal, but are too weak to fix it.
So you take your medications,
microwave a can of pea soup,
then lay on dirty sheets as
the roar of air-conditioners
bash through open windows.
After a serious suicide attempt,
one realizes that the scent of geraniums
has invaded your room. And I smile
knowing that the fact of flowers
will never be enough.

JH