They don’t walk

or talk

or try to be anything,

but the weight of who they are

a wet blanket

a depressing claw

that rips, in the dark.

They are waiting,

for what they will never get



sinks lower

when their ego

climbs higher

It peaks

and jumps

like a suicide

that splats on the sidewalk.


of those who are not good enough

They can never get enough

they are ravening wolves

that will eat you—

consumed with envy

and every bad thing

they have eaten.

It never fills them up

It’s sawdust in their stomachs

It’s a misery, nature never intended.

But there are ways out

It isn’t what we do that matters, but how we do it.

I have seen men throwing salmon like a sport in the supermarket

bicycle messengers defying death

taxi drivers giving therapy.

The day defeats most people, but there are some

who celebrate the sunrise

and walk into the sunset.

This life matters.

Most people are trying to find a way

to get back

to normal

but there are other ways

to go beyond.

It’s mostly spiritual.

When you transcend the worst situation

and laugh

death doesn’t know what to do.

You are undefeated, and

that is beautiful.


6 thoughts on “When Death Doesn’t Know What to Do

      1. Thanks for the recommendation. Bukowski is the perfect example of how to be an asshole with style. I love almost all of his work, and over the years of blogging, I have referenced him over 35 times. Leonard Cohen said, “He brought everybody down to earth, even the angels.”


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