a residue by charles bukowski

stuck in mid-flight,
wickedly sheared,
dreaming of the
dactylozoid.

turned away,
fashioned to stop
on zero,
flamed out,
hacked at,
demobilized.

where is common
laughter?
simple joy?
where did they
go?

what a vanishing
trick,
that.

even the skies
snarl.
what rancor,
what
bitterness...

the cry of the
smothered
heart,
now

remembering
better
times
wild and
wondrous.

now the sad
grim
present

cleaves.