some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils. 
then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune, 
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink 
overfed whale. 
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.

Poet: Charles Bukowski
Poem: Some People

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