lowquality.net

by Charles Bukowski
It’s never quite right, he said, the way peo­ple look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
writ­ten.
It’s never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as his­tory,
the waste of the species,
the crush­ing of the light and the way,
it’s not quite right,
it’s hardly right at all
he said.

don’t I know it? I
answered.

I walked away from the mir­ror.
it was morn­ing, it was after­noon, it was
night

noth­ing changed
it was locked in place.
some­thing flashed, some­thing broke, some­thing
remained.

I walked down the stair­way and
into it

Sorry I haven’t been post­ing much orig­i­nal content.