rainy days

no sun and copious amounts of rain calls for a little Bukowski.

Alone With Everybody

by Charles Bukowski

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.

the magic of this poem rests in Bukowski's semiotic strip tease--the point of this depressing nihilism is to call into question the seemingly obvious significance of the human body. of course, we hope that another person will eventually mean love, companionship, the end to loneliness. Bukowski robs us of our innate and elusive humanity and relegates us to pitifully hopeful animals, a group of which he is a part. "we are all trapped by a singular fate" -- even the speaker is a part of this group of lonely people and with this admission, any didactic or condescending tone relents. because of this, we as readers are able to distrust this jaded and heartbroken creature who speaks to us, and we are able to find idealism while maintaining the knowledge that heartbreak (and rain and gloomy days) will appear again. so why not dwell in it, until a beautiful fall day emerges?