Tragedy often evokes art, for art often exposes the truth of tragedy. A snippet of Charles Bukowski’s poem “The Crunch” has been echoing in my head of late:
our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winnersit hasn’t told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.or the terror of one person
aching in one place
aloneuntouched
unspoken to
Here is the poem in its entirety:
the Crunch
too much too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody.laughter or
tearshaters
loversstrangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacksarmies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking
virgins.an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clockpeople 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-ass winnersit hasn’t told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.or the terror of one person
aching in one place
aloneuntouched
unspoken towatering a plant.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.I suppose they never will be.
I don’t ask them to be.but sometimes I think about
it.the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.too much
too littletoo fat
too thin
or nobodymore haters than lovers.
people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.there must be a way.
surely there must be a way that we have not yet
though of.who put this brain inside of me?
it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.it will not say
“no.”
