a great writer remains in bed
shades down
doesn’t want to see anyone
doesn’t want to write anymore
doesn’t want to try anymore;
the editors and publishers wonder;
some say hes insane
some say he’s dead;
his wife now answers all the mail:
“…he does not wish to…”
and some others even walk up and down
outside his house,
look at the pulled-down
shades;
some even go up and ring the
bell.
nobody answers.
the great writer does not want to be
disturbed. perhaps the great writer is not
in? perhaps the great writer has gone
away?
but they all want to know the truth.
to hear his voice, to be told some good
reason for it all.
if he has a reason
he does not reveal it.
perhaps there isn’t any
reason?
strange and disturbing arrangements are
made; his books and paintings are quietly
auctioned off;
no new work has appeared now for
years.
yet his public won’t accept his
silence –
if he is dead
they want to know; if he is
insane they want to know; if he has a
reason, please tell us!
they walk past his house
write letters
ring the bell
they cannot understand and will not
accept
the way things are.
I rather like
it.
-Charles Bukowski
