Hell Is Other People
Our houses have become bunkers, places
that are at least not out there, quiet vaults
with doors we can close, end points to
which our traffic flows, where we still
control the pace and volume and VOLUME
of our input, where we can decide that all
the terrible things that they are saying are
not being said here in the one place we can
maybe not have to touch anyone, where
we can maybe finish one goddamn thought,
or not have any thoughts at all, and isn't
it strange that people used to gather in bars,
used to accumulate in malls, used to head
out on purpose to find one another in their
churches and social clubs as if, as if it took
a village, as if other people had anything
to offer other than a disappointing world
view, a viral bit of nothing new to pass
around, or a thrust of righteous anger at
the river of human filth that we wade in
every day. No. Better to have the bunker
and its walls. Better to have an off switch,
a mute button, voice mail, windows we
can lock, climate control. A place we call
our own. Nice, but don't expect an invitation.
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