Humanity

Provided from http://bukowski.net/

In a lazy Sunday afternoon, I was just reading a poem, that made me feel the tranquility all the way, by Charles Bukowski and I wanted to share it below:

avoiding humanity

much of my life has been dedicated
to just that.

and still is.

even today at the track,
I was sitting alone between races,
in a dumb dream-state
but dumb or not,
it was mine.

then I heard a voice.
some fellow had seated himself
right behind me.

"I've come where it's nice and
quiet," he said.

I got up, walked about 150 yards
away and sat down
again.

I felt no guilt, only the return of a
more pleasant state of
being.

for decades i have been
bothered by door-knockers,
phone-ringers, letter-writers; and
strangers in airports and bars,
boxing matches, cafes, concerts,
libraries, supermarkets, jails,
hospitals, hotels, motels,
pharmacies, post offices,
etc.

I am not a lonely person.
I don't want to be embraced, cajoled,
told jokes to, I don't want to share
opinions or talk about the
weather and/or etc. and
etc.

I have never met a lively, original
interesting soul by accident and
I don't expect to.

all I have ever met are a herd of
dullards who have wanted to project
their petty frustrations upon me.

for some time women fooled
me.
I would see a body, a face, a
seeming aura of peace and
gentleness, a cool refreshing lake
to splash in,
but once they spoke
there was a voice like
chalk scratching a blackboard,
and what came forth as
speech
was a hideous and crippled
mind.

I lived with dozens of these.

wait.
the phone is ringing now.
but I have a message
machine.
they are leaving
one.

this one wants to see
me.
it wants to invite
itself over.
a reason is given,
some pretense.
it is hardly a worthy
one.
the last words are,
"Please let me know."

why do they want to see
me?
I don't want to see
them.
can't they sense
this?

am I the only one in the
world who finds being
alone to be a blessing, a
miracle?

must I always be kind to
those who would wallow
in my hours?

am i an ugly soul?
unkind?
unappreciative?
misanthropic?
a misogynist?
a crackpot?
a bastard?
a murderer of hope?
do I torture animals?
am I without love?
do I reek of bitterness?
am I unfair?
am I the wrecking ball of dreams?
am I the devil's encore?
do I put glass in the sandbox?
am I without morals or mercy?

if so, why do they want to keep
seeing me?

I would never want to see
anybody like that.

especially
when I am
shaving.
       Charles Bukowski, Betting on The Muse, 1996, pg. 240