men murder each other in the streets without reason.

the worst men have the best jobs

the best men have the worst jobs

or are unemployed

or locked in madhouses.

I have 4 cans of food left.

air-conditioned troops go from house to house

from room to room

jailing, shooting, bayoneting the people.

we have done this to ourselves,

we deserve this

we are like roses that have never bothered to bloom when we should have bloomed

and it is as if the sun has become disgusted with waiting

it is as if the sun were a mind that has given up on us.

I go out on the back porch and look across the sea of dead plants

now thorns and sticks shivering in a windless sky.

Somehow, I'm glad we're through

finished—

the works of Art

the wars

the decayed loves

the way we lived each day.

when the troops come up here

I don't care what they do

for we already killed ourselves each day we got out of bed.

I go back into the kitchen

spill some hash from a soft can,

it is almost cooked already and I sit eating,

looking at my fingernails.

the sweat comes down behind my ears

and I hear the shooting in the streets

and I chew and wait without wonder.

~ Charles Bukowski