it’s funny, isn’t it?

switching the tv channels
endlessly
you get
all the faces
and there’s never
the right face

just faces

it’s an unfolding
horror
flick
flick
flick

more
of
less

faces
that speak
what
they have been
stuffed
with

how
did they get
inside that
glass?

who
put them
there?

is there
nothing
else?

a
world to have?
a
world to save?

these are not
my people

where   have
my people
gone?

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1986
Source
Original manuscript