There is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.
people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.
people just are not good to each other
one on one.
the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.
we are afraid.
our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-*** winners.
it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.
or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone
untouched
unspoken to
watering a plant.

-Charles Bukowski

I haven't
finished
a book
in years,
knowing
there  
are no
endings.
Soft edges
vaguely
approached
present
as foreign
landscapes,
distant
and
slanted.
In recognition
of futility,
vertical lines
fall flat,
emptied
and
exhausted,
leaving
false
trails
in their
wake.
I follow,
embedding
myself
within
the infinite
weariness
of space...

-R.C. Mandeville

Line breaks within the piles
of weeping wombs, where the deer
and the antelope play Mozart
and polish with brooms,
when the maid has forgotten
her day off and you're left stranded,
perplexed within the certainty
of your own death, and the flowers
that were brought,
too late.

Keeping up with the cruelty
of Time is no small affair;
running ragged underneath
a vagrant moon that remains
impassive in the face of your
demise, counting backward
by tens, and the plumber has
mastered the scream of the violin.

It's better, perhaps,
to not look into the sky,
witnessing your life as it unravels
amid the flotsam of clouds
that melt like butter
with the passing of the sun,
fading like the day,
along with the failing
drumbeat
of your
own
                    
rebellious
                        
heart...

R.C. Mandeville