Because the headlines have been a mess the past few days,

Art is everywhere - and it can be crafted to be seen at first glance; or rather, noticed with enough time passed. So beautiful! So much potential! Now, off to read...

s/love,
Mon

A Plausible Finish

A plausible finish by Charles Bukowski

There ought to be a place to go
When you can't sleep
Or you're tired getting drunk
And the grass doesn't work anymore
And I don't mean to go to
Hash or Cocaine
I mean a place to go
Besides a death that's waiting
And a love that doesn't work
Anymore.

There ought to be a place to go
When you can't sleep
Besides a tv set or a movie
Or a newspaper
Or a novel about a woman
With her clit in her throat.

It's not having that place to go
That creates the people in madhouses
And the suicides.

I suppose what most people do
When there isn't any place to go
Is to go to someplace or something
That hardly satisfies them,
And this ritual tends to sandpaper them,
Into a dullness where they can relax
With out hope.

Those faces you see everyday
On the streets
Were not created entirely without
Thought: Be kind to them:
They have
Escaped.