“I like to prowl ordinary places.
I feel sorry for us all or glad for us
caught alive together
and awkward in that way.
there’s nothing better than the joke
the seriousness of us
the dullness of us”
― Charles Bukowski, Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit
standing under the beaming sun
my body unwashed
and eyes sore
from exercising poor sleep
hug my frame
and the careless day
stretches under the dull hours
bodies in suites and dresses
styled hair perching on their heads
criss and cross the blocks
holding onto caffeinated release
perhaps they are headed
towards a dream
or perhaps all meaning is lost
among the dull hours of obligatory existence
Do you ever have any utterly dull days?