Rough patch

I'm not sure exactly what caused it or why it all happened simultaneously, but for some reason last week just sucked for so many of my closest friends. People were sick, family members passed away, well laid plans fell apart... For some reason an inordinate amount of shit hit the fan last week and everyone I know got buried in it. So, for those of you who have suffered, and for those still suffering, know that I am here for you and wish you all the best. As one of my wiser friends pointed out, "this too shall pass" and I'll be here to help you through it in whatever way I can. The poem for this week mirrors some of the sense of inevitability and loss I've felt this week. I can't take credit for tracking it down though. My former-English-teacher mother picked it out for me and while it isn't really an inspiring poem to uplift us, in my mother's words "it seems to capture something about how bloody hard life can be."

The Tragedy of the Leaves
Charles Bukowski

I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead,
the potted plants yellow as corn.
My woman was gone and the
empty bottles like bled corpses
surrounded me with their uselessness;
the sun was still good, though,
and my landlady's note cracked in fine and
undemanding yellowness; what was needed now
was a good comedian, ancient style, a jester
with jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurd
because it exists, nothing more;
I shaved carefully with an old razor,
the man who had once been young and
said to have genius; but
that's the tragedy of the leaves,
the dead ferns, the dead plants;
and I walked into the dark hall
where the landlady stood
execrating and final,
sending me to hell,
waving her fat sweaty arms
and screaming,
screaming for rent
because the world had failed us both.