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small
unnerving occurrences
keep
coming up
one
after the other:
haphazard
dumb
accidents of
freakish
chance-
the tiring tasks
that are part
of our routine
and the
sundry other
ever-recurring
annoyances-
all these
inevitable
small defeats
and sorrows
rub and push
continually
up against
the moments
the days
the years
until
one almost
wishes
almost
begs for
a larger
more meaningful
destiny.

I can
almost understand
why
people
leap
from
bridges.

I even
understand
in part those
people who
arm themselves
and slaughter their
friends and innocent
strangers.

I am
not exactly
in sympathy
with them
and I decry
their reckless behavior
but I can
understand
the
ultimate
undeniable
persistent
force of
their
misery.

the horrific violent
failure
of any one
of us
to live properly
says to me that
we are all equally
guilty
for every human
crime.
there are
no
innocents.

and if there is
no
hell,
those who coldly
judge these
unfortunates
will
create
one for us
all.

the difficulty of breathing - bukowski

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