Charles Bukowski

drive through hell

the people are weary, unhappy and frustrated, the people are
bitter and vengeful, the people are deluded and fearful, the
people are angry and uninventive
and I drive among them on the freeway and they project
what is left of themselves in their manner of driving-
some more hateful, more thwarted than others—
some don’t like to be passed, some attempt to keep others
from passing
—some attempt to block lane changes
—some hate cars of a newer, more expensive model
—others in these cars hate the older cars.

the freeway is a circus of cheap and petty emotions, it’s
humanity on the move, most of them coming from some place         
hated and going to another they hate just as much or
the freeways are a lesson in what we have become and
most of the crashes and deaths are the collision
of incomplete beings, of pitiful and demented

when I drive the freeways I see the soul of humanity of
my city and it’s ugly, ugly, ugly: the living have choked the