There was once an old Buddhist monk.
One day he wrote himself a letter:
“You have done a wonderful job in
this life. Tbe Pure Land (paradise)
awaits. Love, Budda”
This inspired me to request an email
I asked her to pls send word expressing
her undying love for me. Either that or
an email deriding me for being a repulsive
pervert. I asked her to surprise me with the
truth. Her usual charge for a vid is 20 to 30.
Let’s see what she says.
— fb
Since my last skunk poem blew up the net
I thought I’d hit you with another true tale
concerning our brother or sister, the skunk.
I was driving along as I often am
Just trying to get back to the mattress
when a minor flurry of motion
caused me to pull over and curse.
In a small grassy area between streets
was a large skunk shaking its head
but I couldn’t quite make out a face
because the head was stuck in a
glass jar. The pathos of the sight
sent waves of nausea from my
gut to my mind. Speeding cars
whizzed by on either side:
creatures on their way to
ball games, churches, grocery
stores, illicit trysts, and family
gatherings. I approached the
skunk and saw that he’d never
get that jar off his head by
himself. I also saw the long claws
attached to his front paws.
I had to help, but I didn’t want to
end up in a death camp called a
hospital, so I strained my brain
a minute, ran to the car, pulled out
the work gloves and a crutch.
I lightly placed the padded end
of the crutch over the front paws
then pulled the jar with both hands.
It came off. The skunk lifted his snout
in the grey air and took some
breaths. He looked okay. I brought some
cat food from the car and placed it
it near him. He sat there
on the grass and looked at it.
I hopped in the car and headed back
to the mattress. At home I kept thinking
about him. I called a rehabber who said I
should have syringe fed him honey just
in case. I was too tired and soul sick to move.
The next day I drove back to the
scene. The skunk was gone along with
most of the food. The old mattress felt a
little better after that.
— Fyodor Bukowski
It was a homeless cat feeding day
I was driving down towards the
mostly heartless city early,
less chance of getting yelled at
or ticketed that way
I passed a skunk by the side
of the road. I figured he was
already frolicking at the Rainbow
Bridge, and I had to get to the cats
so I kept driving. After putting food
out at five locations, on my way back
I saw the skunk again and pulled over
just in case he was still with us here
on this mostly heartless Earth.
His head was upright. No blood and
he seemed intact. I cursed our maker
for doing this to the skunk and for
doing this to me again. I decided that
he needed help more than I needed to
maintain my present smell, so I pulled
work gloves and a paper shopping bag
from the back seat. I put him (or her)
in the bag. A cop pulled over and
asked me if I needed help. Then I cursed
the worthless inhuman trash that
hit the skunk and all of those that drove by.
The officer smiled and called me by name
though I never gave him my name.
He suggested I call a local wildlife center.
He even gave me the number. I explained
the skunk’s plight to the lady there, and I offered
to pay. She had to ask someone else if they
could be of help, and then she came back on
and gave me another number. Long story short,
I called number after number: wildlife rehabbers,
animal emergency clinics, etc. One voice after another
told me to call this other number. One voice told me
that it would be illegal for me to try and keep the skunk
in my county. I told him that I live in my
own country and that his county could go________.
Finally, I left a voice message to a lady
who I was assured would help. I put the
skunk in the trunk and drove to the pet store.
They didn’t have any skunk food, and after I
watched a few online videos and learned that
I should syringe feed him some honey and other
stuff, no one at the pet store would help. The
ugly young lady manager there explained that
skunks are considered “nuisance animals.”
As I fed him in the carrier in my back seat,
a bee attacked, and I cursed God once again.
The skunk ate a little honey I bought at the
supermarket and some chicken broth too.
It seemed that a back leg or both were broken
Those front legs were swinging those long claws at me
but I couldn’t blame him. I hid the carrier with him in it
under my porch. The skunk rehabber messaged back and
told me to put a blanket over him and to swirl an egg in some water.
She also said that she was going to a family function and that
she would call me back in a few hours at which time I
could head over to her place with the skunk.
I looked at the comments at her rehabbing location.
One stated that she never called the commenter back.
I didn’t have any eggs. I collapsed on the mini mattress
in my room because I was exhausted and it was getting late.
A few hours went by with no call back, so I got in the car
and headed out to her locale with the skunk. He was
starting to shake. I fed him again. His face reminded me of
the face of a dearly departed cat who passed only days before.
We drove and drove. After nearly two hours we arrived at a
semi-rural destination.
A car with windows rolled down sat in the drive. I knocked
on the screen door. The wooden door behind it was open.
A dog with a healed hole in his forehead ran along the fence
bordering the driveway. I went back to the car. Under the
garbage bag and shirt I put over him, the skunk
was shaking worse than before. I tried calling and texting
the skunk rebber lady.
Finally, I found her Facebook page and left an emergency
message. I pulled the carrier out of the car and tried feeding
the skunk again. Then the lady appeared from out of her front door.
I had envisioned her as a sweet old Aunt Bee, but she was an
ordinary-looking middle-aged lady with a crazed look on her
face. I realized that I’d been moving very slowly, so
I explained to her in my meekest voice that I wasn’t drunk
(I wasn’t), just very tired
because I’d been up since 5:00 am.
She started in on me. “THAT’S my life EVERY DAY.
I TOLD YOU THAT I WOULD CALL!” I explained
that because it was such a long drive and the skunk
was shaking, I thought I should get a head start
driving. She continued to harangue me. Then she
explained that she’d been at a family function to
celebrate the memory of her dearly departed son
who had died one year ago that day. I expressed
my regrets, but she hadn’t mentioned that on the
phone, and the skunk was shaking. And there was
literally no one else. There on her lawn, in front of
the shaking skunk in the carrier, as I stared into her grief
and anger crazed face, as she continued to dress me down
and inform me that she had already cared for 129 forlorn
skunks this year alone while she help down her job,
I realized that she was a Saint driven nearly mad because
most people were heartless and wouldn’t help skunks, so
the burdens all fell upon her. I remembered my dearly departed
cat and continued to wonder if I could have done things differently
and saved him.
I realized that I did not feel the presence of God
I started shaking and crying aloud, and no manly efforts
on my part could stop my tears. I blubbered that I was sorry
but that there was no one else. She softened when I told her
about my cat and handed me a form to fill out. There was a
blank for donation. I asked her how much. She said, “Whatever
you want” then “Don’t worry about that.” I gave her 5 twenties and
said through my tears that she deserved much more. And of
course she did. She said that was generous of me and picked
up the skunk in her blanket just like he was a baby. I thanked God
for the lady.
She said she would call me. I said that I would adopt the skunk if
he makes it. She said she would call. She never called.
–Fyodor Bukowski
Skinny and grey
he leapt into my trailer
then looked around nervously.
I popped a can of cat food
and he chomped away as his
eyes darted around at the
mysterious and dark
surroundings.
I already had cats
so I put him back outside.
About a week later he
appeared at the back door
looking even skinnier and
greyer in the harsh light.
This time I put him in the car
and drove him to the vet.
The vet showed me that
the he was covered with
caked fecal matter and fleas,
and we could both see that his eyes
were oozing yellow goo.
He put the anti-flea solution on him,
gave me some antibiotics,
cat shampoo,
and vitamins for him.
The cat was very old
and had missing teeth.
When I got him home
I told him he could stay.
I would be his
retirement plan.
I figured I could do better
for him than nature had.
I gave him a bath and
kept him in the bedroom
where he rested his tired bones
in a premium cat bed and
ate voraciously. He’d had it
rough outside, so I even
got him a bubbling cat fountain
and a glow-in-the-dark collar
with his new name and info.
engraved on a heart-shaped tag.
As I rested on my futon,
he lay on my chest and looked
at me. When I turned on my
stomach, he jumped on my back and slept.
And when I turned on my side
he managed to balance there,
his head held up proudly
like the Sphinx.
Then the diarrhea came
and came.
No big deal.
I cleaned it up.
He was more than worth
the effort.
He’d been neutered
before he came to me,
so I guessed that he’d been
someone’s cat but then
abandoned.
People are beasts.
Sometimes he made it to
the litter pan.
He did his best.
The vet advised trying
boiled chicken and rice
for a while to settle his stomach,
so I cooked
for the first time in many years.
Then, about a month after I
adopted him, he stopped
eating altogether, wouldn’t
touch the chicken or the
different brands of cat food.
He couldn’t
even get up. The vet said
he was moribund and had
reached the end.
I didn’t want him to suffer
or die
alone when I was at work,
so I stayed with him as the vet
prepared the needle that
would help him pass. I told
Francis that his soul could
follow me home or go ahead
to that painless place
where I would be with him
again someday.
Afterwards I stayed in the
exam room with him for a
while. Then I took his collar
and put it in my pocket.
You are my boy, Francis,
and I was lucky to have you.
I will follow you home
someday.
— Fyodor Bukowski
Some want that Ninja life
crouched down over the
gas tank, zooming and buzzing
up and down life’s roads.
I’d rather lean back low
behind the gleaming
high handlebars of an
American chopper.
Think Peter Fonda
in Easy Rider.
Riding Easy
Taking it slow
It’s the way a man
travels when he knows
that there’s really
nowhere
to
go.
— Fyodor Bukowski
I try texting this doll face
I’d enjoyed some dances from
At a hole in the wall club
Years ago. Absurd, I know.
Then I get the inevitable
reply: “Who is this?” Without
punctuation of any kind.
The reply opens up a
Pandora’s box of worms.
So I leave the lid closed.
A few minutes later I get
a cryptic text from a different
Number with a different area
Code:
in a long time how have
you been” I reply: “Who is
this please?” A few minutes
later: “Is this not Elly? This is
Danielle. Don’t you remember?”
And that reply came with a pic
of a professionally dressed cute
Asian lady. What are the chances
I smirk and sigh. Like Charlie
Brown with the football I have
to try. Long story short a few
texts later I determine the sender to
Be a scammer unrelated to the
baby faced black girl from the
trap.
Who is this? Who is this?
It’s the question Emperor Wu
Asked the Bodhidharma.
It’s the question Jesus asked
his apostles. The question we
ask of someone we thought
we knew until…
and it’s the question
I ask you
and myself
too
–Fyodor Bukowski
Buy my novel on Amazon.
I sometimes chance upon a
video so ludicrous that it makes
me smile. Once involves a certain
Hollywood actor famous for playing
a pirate based on the mannerisms of
Keith Richards. I don’t watch films, but
that’s all well and good. I understand
his character brings great joy to young
and old. But to see him barely playing
guitar while costumed like a reject from
a Guns n Roses cover band and sharing
the stage with Jeff Beck no less is a
bit much, especially for a guy like me who takes
shots of Pepto-Bismol to get through
tbe day. Keith Richards
gave everything he had to his music
and that’s why he’s still legit up there
while guys like Johnny just don’t deserve
that stage. Is Jeff Beck so starved for
attention? Does he think he might get
Sloppy seconds on some of Johnny’s
teenaged fans? I smile as I think of all
the starving and talented guitarists out there
Who could be saved by playing with Jeff.
Then I find that Johnny’s talents extend
to the world of painting and who knows
what else. It’s gratifying to know that
That his paintings sell while Van Gogh
died unrecognized. Of course, the moronic
Will attribute all this to envy and hate,
But I don’t begrudge the man his acting
Accolades or his wealth. In fact,
I googled “Johnny Depp animal rights” in
The hopes of finding some nugget about
Wonderful things he’s done for animals,
But what came up was an allegation
From his ex that he dangled their dog
Out a car window and threatened to put
It in a microwave. Hollywood Vampire
And cartoony Keith Richards knock off
Pirate, man of myriad talents and owner of
one
Hell of a greasy self satisfied smirk, I
Salute you, American hero, Johnny Depp.
— Fyodor Bukowski
I was teaching guitar lessons
at a mom and pop music shop
when Jack and his pop came in.
He wanted to play classic rock,
which was what I was weaned on,
so I got him into Wolf Marshall’s
Basics 1 book and before too long
he was playing “Sympathy for the
Devil” and “Jumping Jack Flash,”
etc. though he seemed a bit slow
in some ways and clearly preferred
playing Dungeons and Dragons with
a collection of nerds on the net to
practicing his minor pentatonic scales.
All in all, he was an ok kid, though his
progress was glacial, I liked his musical
taste because he smiled when I
demonstrated this or that piece or let
loose with some licks. One day he came
in ranting about what someone had said
about something Bill Gates had said, and
Though I soon steered his attention to
musical matters at hand, it struck me as
Strange that he should defend old Gates
with such vehemence, but I chalked it up
to honor among nerds. Well, it was the
year of COVID, and before long Jack
developed a nasty habit of sneezing in
that tiny lesson room, which in itself was
ok, except for the fact that he never
Covered his mouth and one sneeze hit me
across the face like a splash. I presented
him with one of the clear face shields the
owner of the place handed out, but Jack
always managed to take it off in the
middle of the lesson, sneeze up the place,
then saunter into the lesson room the very
next week like nothing had happened.
Long story short, I ended up calling
his mom and explained the matter in
a message. With much finesse, I said
that he was a great kid but might be
allergic to the cat hair on my clothes, etc.
and suggested he try one of the other
teachers. And while it wasn’t a “gas gas
gas” to have to fire him like that, at least
I’m one nerd less likely now to get another
splash of spit across my face.
— fyodor bukowski
What happened to that me
Who picked up old receipts
Off the road half-expecting
To see messages from God
Written on them
Or that me who rode my mini-bike
Past the lovely girl’s house
Dozens of times a day
Half expecting to see her
Walk down that long driveway
To wave me into her life
Or that me who got into that old
Nash Rambler with my half-psycho
Father every Sunday to suffer his
Lies and cigarette smoke and farts?
What happened to that me who prayed
for a UFO to land in my backyard to
take me to a planet full of honest
full-time fathers, a God who spoke
directly to all who called,
and a lovely girl with my name
In her heart?
— Fyodor Bukowski
Read my novel on Amazon.
there is pain so great
it cant be written
or sung
there are poems
that should never
grow tongues
great pain when fresh
writes no poems
it knows only
contorted faces
acid tears
ugly howls
and silence.
i would have
Made myself
Silent and
softened these
features forever
Were it not for
Those innocent eyes
which accomplished
what religions
and women
failed to do
because if i open
that drawer
and end this pain
with one pull
what would they do
but starve
and go mad
with questions
not to be answered?
their innocent wide
Moist eyes
like little worlds
exerting gravitational pull
enough
to keep me
bound to this
howling rock
for God knows
how long
i was writing an epic poem
in ottava rima and was told
by a few of discerning taste
and acerbic tongue that
it was funny, and witty, and
original, but after a day
followed by many others days
of
crushing labor and a neighbor’s
barking dog and a hard on with
nowhere special to go it’s all I
can do to write like this:
a desperate poem
from a desperate man
to other desperate souls:
when the brain bleeds
the pen screeds.
I was in a small wooded area
bordering a field
As I glanced all around
Ready to dump the
Shopping bag of
Cat food
I spied a green couch
at the far end of
the field
and a ragged man rising
from it. I dumped
the bag and started
back for the car.
“Hey!” the approaching
beggar exclaimed.
I calmly entered my
car and started to
drive away, but knowing
humanity and
realizing there was
a chance that
the beggar would
stomp or spit
in the food
out of spite,
I pulled into an
abandoned lot,
popped the trunk
and dumped more
dry and then wet
cat chomps into
a bag, doubled back
and dumped that
near enough
to the field for
Hungry cats to smell.
I saunterd back
To my ride,
A .38 on my hip
feeling as good
as it gets
theses days
–Read my book on Amazon
As the world is poisoned
and enslaved
by technology
and since romance
and the days of my youth
were slain years ago
I’ve taken to peeping in
on the cam girls of Colombia
Especially one with a sweet
petite figure, ravenesque hair,
and a mouth full of braces.
her life force bursts through
My Android screen and leaves
me gasping at glimpses of what
could have been and probably
was for her ancestors dancing
In grass skirts on
Some unspoiled island,
flowers in their hair, as the
drums announce the arrival
of my ancestors wearing
Frilly shirts on some
sailing ship while staring through
crude telescopes at the laughing
island girls wading towards them,
honeyed breasts glistening under
the sun. And now I lay on my
worn futon watching this
Cambodian babe
who could make me so happy
laughing and making rap
video hand gestures as
the (other?) peeping perverts send
virtual margaritas and
she rocks happily to the drums of
“Highway to Hell” as if we haven’t
traveled that road long ago
and arrived at our
eternal destination.
— FB
once in a while I can’t help myself
and check the old social media
to see what the old friends
and hot asian girls I’ll nevet
are up to. today I made just
that mistake. An old pal
posted a video of his new
band made up of old farts
in splashy shorts playing
and singing “Respect” by
you know who. And the
rest of the set list was
just as dusty. Far better
it would have been to
have written and played
anything original, even
if screamed or whispered
to the most basic of chords.
Yet by all appearanced the
fattened human cattle
there would disagree..
how they shook their
grey locks and sang.
And how they clutched
onto (like there will be
no tomorrow)
the pizza slices that
they got for taking
an experimental vaccine.
–fb
a tatted teen pulled a pointy guitar
off the wall, plugged in and shredded
away with tapped arpeggios, 3 note per
string runs, power chords, etc. It was all
too fast for me but dizzyingly well done.
nobody said anything after he
stopped playing. The cabbage patch girl
had been busy with her phone
behing the counter and the
shoppers were too occupied with
their own rock star dreams
to care enough to say anything
either. I pulled a steel-bodied
guitar off the wall, sat on the
stool, and played some 30’s
ragtime and then some Lightning
Hopkins licks with my index and
middle fingers while my thumb
beat out a bass rhythm. No one
gave a glance and Cabbage
Patch behind the counter
thinking no one was looking,
bent over and
shot a selfie of her fat
round ass.
–fb
life is tough enough
and lovely enough
that having to Hurry
through it is a screaming
shame. I remember being
led into a simple hut
in a Peruvian rainforest
and introduced to
a family, all wearing
something like loincloths,
a fool might call them
them poor, but they
fished together
and stayed together
said the tour guide,
she added that they
woke up when
Nature told
them to, not an alarm
clock.
and I still can see
those beaming smiles
and pudgy brown
bodies in my mind
driven mad many times
by the West’s “progress.”
They handed me a big
urn of something that
the tour lady warned me
was quite strong, and
she wasn’t kidding.
I took a mouthful then
I handed it back to
the dad who passed
it to one of the kids
About 9 or 10
years old
who took a big swig
that put mine to shame.
then they had a healthy
laugh. And we had to
go, the tour lady had a
schedule to keep, and
so did I, and that was
my downfall, and probably
hers too.
–fb
After surveying several
“gentlemens’ clubs”
and not seeing anyone
who got my endorphins
jumping like happy
dolphins, a baby-faced
black girl with Betty Boop
lashes, long blonde locks,
and a curvy body wrapped
in sheer white embossed
with little hearts, sat beside
me and asked my name.
I told her the truth, that it
didn’t matter, since I was
neither rich nor famous.
And I added that she looked
good in white and would
look good on white too. A
line I’ve used before but
made up myself. She was
just my type, which is to
say I wasn’t her’s. Another
black beauty pulled up,
who I knew to be hip,
so I shared with her
an article about one
of Phizer”s ex chief
scientists and VPs
proclaiming that
our governments
and big boy “vaxxers”
are lying to us in order
quite possibly cull
Us. Now I”m
no doctor, but when they
supress the voices
of people like this,
that tells me something.
Anyway, the hip one
started to read the
article aloud and
knodded along,
then the other one,
Ms. SUPERSWEET,
asked me if I believe
all “that stuff.” And I could
tell by the way she said
it that she didn’t. It hit me
then that I was jeopardizing
my dances with her. Well,
I told her that I have no way
Of knowing for sure
but that the big boys
pushing the injections
are on record as promoting
population control, and that
it’s wise to consider dissenting
voices. I may have also
mentioned the Georgia
Guidestones…and that
was pretty much that,
since she was a nurse
as it turned out. Well, I
knew that with each word I
was pushing her farther away
but said those words anyway.
I’d rather drive home
unsatisfied than have
the consequences of
not speaking
on my conscience.
So maybe that supervising
nurse who called me St.
Francis all those years ago
when I was an STNA wasn’t
so wrong. after all.
—fb, author of Mail Order Annie, a Story of Passion and Compassion
You’d see so many
when the living
was smooth: bumper
stickers like “Don’t Tread
on Me” and “Live Free
or Die.” Well, I don’t see
many of those anymore
now that the controllers
are talking tough. And
so it goes, the many never
are who they claim to be,
and the few are getting
fewer all the time.
–fb
Sitting at the club
looking at some
so so honeys
wondering how many
will be going home
to and giving their
money to drug dealers
who torture kittens
or beat up strippers
who love them.
then the buddha on
my other shoulder
tells me that maybe
im just spitting sour
grape seeds again. But no
im no young man now
and this shot of reality doesn’t
bother me (except the part
about the kittens) like it used
to. I get up to leave but
before I do, I tip the
door boy, smile, and ask
just how many
of these ladies
go home to drug
dealers. Not expecting
a reply, I head for
the door, but before
I do, he looks me dead
in the eye and without
a smile says, “Every
single one
of them.” Then
the buddha
on my shoulder
smiles and
I do too.
Please buy my book “Mail-Order Annie: a Story of Passion and Compassion.” On Kindle and Amazon
Driving home down
the dark city streets
after dumping the
cat food behind
the fast food place
I’m accosted at
the light by a beggar
with his massive hand out
he puts his dreadful
face too close to my
window and smiles
when he sees the
empty cat food bag
perhaps thinking I’m
an easy mark. I look
at the red light ahead
he knocks on my window
It’s not that
I dislike people of the
streets. It’s just that
entitled attitude coming off
a pure pest that keeps
the wallet closed. I’ve read of
times when street people
entertained first, then asked:
the Rev Gary Davis finger-
picking his big Gibson
Humming bird, preaching of
Salvation; Blind Boy
Fuller picking happy ragtime
tunes and singing of sin
back in the 20s and 30s…
of course guys like that
weren’t beggars, but even
if the one at my window
were trying to do something
instead
of acting like his grizzled
face alone deserved mercy
in a world like this, I’d send
a few bucks his way. But
that being not the case
I’ll save it for the strippers
and the cats
thank you
very much
fyodor bukowski, author of Mail Order Annie on Amazon
Crushing were the yells
of the loutish father
and the sight of him picking
his stinking feet
Crushing were the cries
of the hysterical mother
crazy with disbelief
that Jesus had allowed
her to marry
an unloveable fool
Crushing were the instances
when she perceived
something of him
in my innocent face
Crushing was the glare
of disinterest or disdain
in the faces of the women
I would grow to love
Crushing were most days
and crushing were most nights
until I finally learned
to stop looking for anything
like love from human beings
— Fyodor Bukowski
I turn off my room air-
Conditioner for a second
And sure as the sun, I hear
The sickening sound of an
Old man’s voice, my neighbor’s,
Saying something trivial or
Inane to another old fool,
The trailer park “manager,”
Not far from my bedroom
Window. And I’m thankful
At least
That neither is working a
Buzzsaw or blasting a radio
For hours on end
As they have in the past,
Yet It’s sobering to
Contemplate how little
There is to protect
My tranquility
From them.
With my reading
And writing, and playing
Old jazz standards on my
Low volume or unplugged
semi-acoustic guitar, I don’t
Bother anyone. And lately,
For the most part, the neighbors,
Have been leaving me alone.
Of course I had to fight for
That. Even peace isn’t free.
It’s unsettling to
Consider just how little
There is to protect my
Peace from
So-called human beings:
Thin walls, my AC, and
The soothing, blanketing
Hum of an old tube
Amplifier, barely heard,
as I strum those
Lovely old jazz chords
Like C13 flat5 flat9
And drift into a past
I never knew
— Fyodor Bukowski
After years of being
Tortured at the bar
With TV’s showing
Borderline-morons,
Dog-abusers, and other
Assorted felons playing
Team sports with balls,
Finally today, one lone
Flat screen played live
Motocross, where it’s
One man and his
Two-wheeled horse
Against every other
and his, just like
Life, where so-called
Teams are illusions
At best and the only
Reality is one against
The rest, powering through
The mud, bracing for the
Whoop de doos and flying
High, as far and wide as one
Can, with the ultimate high
Being leaving lesser men
Behind.
— FB
Waitress in the parking lot
yelling at her bf on the cellphone
Waiter folding napkins
in the back
as I stand at the register
waiting to be seated
for over 5 minutes
Waitress hollers at the bf
storms in I ask to be seated
out of the way
but only one area is “open”
I’m crammed in
with the jabbering hoi polloi
But I need that free wifi now
so I adibe, type up my
necessary work and email
it in to the place that pays me
Mindless music blares away
despite the hour
just as it does everywhere now
the coffee arrives
and I think about those who
hate Poe for marrying
his Virginia though she was
very young while those same
fools cheer and vote for
politicians who
got away with raping little
girls on Epstein’s Island
The coffee is cold
As I try to do some paperwork
for the place that pays me
But my eyes glaze over
So I come to the page
where I type in poems
that perhaps a few like
though they never comment
or pay 2.99 to buy the novel
that I thought might save me
and my rescue cats
And I think about young men
dying in foxholes, watching their
intestines ooze out of their bodies
after the gernades explode
while the politicians who
sent them there rape little
boys in the oval office
then pray to Jesus
to help them find
the patience to make
it through the next campaign
And if you doubt that that
could be true, just read
The Franklin Scandal
It’s true
I order the build-your-own
breakfast with eggs and
cheese They’re out of cheese
which is just fine because
they torture the poor dairy
cows to death Then I remember
that I’m a failed vegan too
though I won’t eat the poor
pigs and I try to avoid meat
I type a few more lines
even if no one really reads
my work My working theory
is that writers often “like”
other writers work simply
so that their work will be
“liked” back And I’ve
clicked on those folks
who’ve like my work
but most of the time
I can’t even find their
work, or when I do
their works are so long
that my minds fails me
halfway through Those
writers who do get
many likes tend to
be young and cute
I find a nook just
quiet enough to
call in sick to work
I’ll go home and sleep,
feed the cats, and
dream just long
enough to renew
the fight to make
it through though
it doesn’t look good
— FB, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE
Love is a Payday Loan.
You leave the counter
Feeling pretty good.
That money feels like
It’s yours. It’s in your
Pocket, after all. It
Feels good, not like
The Smile of first love,
But still pretty good,
Not as good as
the warm paw
Of a beloved pet
On your face stained
With tears after first
Love leaves. You loved
The girl and the pet too.
But when they’re gone
You pay with pain
For those loans of love.
And as for me I’ve paid
And paid for every joy
A woman has ever loaned
Me. I’ve paid with interest
Too, but as for all of my pets
Who’ve crossed the bridge,
Knowing them was worth
All the pain. And I’d pay
It again for each one
Of them.
— FB, author of Mail-Order Annie (a Story of Passion and Compassion)
The waitress I dreamt
About 25 or so years
Ago just waited on me
Only several minutes ago
At the same old
Pizza spot. She doesn’t
Look half-bad for a
Gal her age, which is
To say that I couldn’t
Get it up for her now
If I tried. So the phrase
“Dodged a bullet” pops
Into mind as I watch
Her bring my coffee and
Sprite even as I type this.
But at the same time it
Might have been better
Than nice to have crawled
Under the covers with her
After so many long days
For many long years, not
To mention the unlived
Pleasures of having someone
To have shared my pains
And joys with. But
That’s not how it went.
Even as I’ve typed what
You’ve just read, I’ve heard
Enough of her chatter with
Another waitress to glean
That she has two grown
Kids with no live-in dad,
Which seems to be the
Norm in these final
Days of the Decline and
Fall of Western Civilization.
So maybe I’ve dodged
Half-a-cylinder of bullets,
And if society weren’t such
A collapsing mess, it might
Have been nice to have
Created beings who would
Grow up with my face
But without my regrets.
— FB
You gotta know
That the magically
Lovely curvalicious
New girl behind the
Counter at the Walgreens
Won’t be ringing up
Your canned goods for long
But the poor old woman
Whose been there forever
Will be there for another
Eternity or two And you
Must understand that the
Sexy new guitar student
Will be quitting soon after
Her fingertips start to bruise
But the grizzled old guy
Who only just decided
After losing most of
The flexibility in his
Hands To learn every AC
DC lick ever jammed
Will be at it as long
As his sanity or yours
Holds out Everywhere
And at all times it’s true:
Beauty disappears too soon
While ugly Lasts
Even in the strip club:
The sexy-ass brat swishes
Out the door not long after
She comes to know that
The famous rappers won’t
Be arriving, just the endless
Procession of tragic old
Crackas blowing in with
Whatever crumbs are
Left over after they’ve fed
Their fat wives and
Ungrateful kids because
Beauty makes a beeline
For the exit
And disappears
while
ugly sticks around
And
Lasts and
Lasts
And
Lasts
–FB
You might know him
As the Unabomber.
He wrote that eventually
Technology would put
An end to human freedom
And dignity.
A Child prodigy
Who empathized
With animals
And grew to become
The youngest math
Professor at the University
Where he taught
Just long enough
To swing up a little
Land and a smaller
Shack, where he lived
His beliefs, unlike 99
Percent of so-called
Humanity. But of course
The roads followed him,
And when he realized
They’d never leave him be,
He brought the battle to
Them. And you feel badly
For those who caught
The shrapnel of his
Revenge, but at the
Same time you read
That a social media
Mogul is meeting
With scientists, and
Because you read,
You imagine children of
The future being programmed
To believe that all the cool kids
Take the chip which condemns
Them to transmit their thoughts
Instantly to their so-called
Friends, making any unapproved
Beliefs impossible, which
Would be the end of human
Freedom and dignity. And
Then you have the crazy
Thought that just maybe
Guys like Ted might be
The only defense. But then you
Remember the exploded
Innocent. And that’s the
Greatest crime: taking
Innocent life. So don’t
Worry, I’m not about to
Blow up
Anyone, because even if
I did believe it was the
Only way, which I don’t,
I can’t believe humanity
At present values freedom
And dignity anyway.
And let’s not forget
That the world is a place
Where treason reigns,
Even among brothers.
–FB
Because you read poetry
And you’re not a psycho
You feel bad for
The fading lady
Whose sagging smile
Made every Hell
A Heaven for a while
Back in her day.
And you feel sad too
When you see the
Solitary stripper
Up there barely
Moving those hips
Because she doesn’t
Have health care
And because her
Aging ass only draws
Pity tips. Feel bad for
Them but not too bad.
You gotta know that
Both the lady and
The dancer spent
Their fresh
Hips and thighs
Smiles and breasts
On psychopathic
Pro-sports fans
Who
Made
Rapist dog
Murderers
Into millionaires,
Rarely if ever
Tipped anybody,
And never
Read poetry.
— FB
He was one of the luckiest
Men who ever lived, bouncing
An orange ball around in
A time and place when a
Guy could make millions
for that sort of thing…then of
Course there was the alleged
Rape. I reviewed the
Case, and it seems likely to me
That he did it. But hey, never
Mind her pain, he could bounce
A ball, right? Most pitiful of all
Was the old gaffer sports reporter
Admitting on national tv that
He cried in his keyboard over
Kobe’s crash. Too bad old Kobe
Couldn’t bounce like a basket-
Ball, gramps. Really though, I
Don’t feel good about Kobe’s death,
And I do feel bad for his
Daughter, and all
Of the non-rapists who
Went down. But isn’t that
The way, the best die with
The worst, and millions of
So-called men cry in their
Beers for a man who might
Have raped their daughters
And then grinned all the
Way back from court.
Enjoy your beers and
Ballgames, America.
–FB
I’m amazed at images
Of all these old white rockstar’s
former and current gfs
And wives. You’d think
That with millions in
The bank and worldwide
Praise, they would have
Found themselves women
With ample derriers.
But no, it was one skinny-
Ass psuedo-hippie cocaine
Sucking skank after another.
It’s somewhat strange when
You learn that all these old white
Rock farts learned from the
Old black bluesmen who
For the most part
Created the rhythms and
Licks that the rockers just
Sped up. Of course the
Bluesmens’ lyrics were
reality-based, not the bubble-
Gum peace and love lies
I grew up listening to. I
Would have been so much
Better prepared for the harsh
Truths of life if I’d grown
Up listening to the bluesmen
who knew that since you can’t
Trust any woman, you might
As well get your lies from one
With a sweet baby face and
A big fat ass.
–FB
I can’t even remember
If I’ve written this
Poem before. After all,
I read the same poems,
Play the same songs,
Watch the same films,
And dream the same dreams
Again and again, so it really
Doesn’t matter if I’ve written
This poem before. The same
Delusions again and again:
A world where creatures
Need not eat other creatures,
A world where people only
Fall in love with those who
Can love them back. A world
Where a human being can love
Another human being, and
Not just their beauty or
Money. Pick your
Delusion, baby. There’s just
So many. Just enough to keep
Us alive for a while though.
Nietzsche said that man is
The unhappy animal, but that
Doesn’t apply to everybody. So
I say that man is the delusional
Animal, because we all keep
Believing in something we know
Can’t be true. We have to. We
Just do. My unknown God, we just
Do.
— FB
My furniture consists
Of mostly piles of books:
Philosophy, History, Religion,
But the best Theory of what’s
Behind all this I saw on an
Episode of some low-budget
Sci-fi show: we’re all just pets
Of some hyper-advanced alien
kids. And heaven help those of
Us who belong to the delinquents
And sadists.
–FB
The hardest thing
About secretly
Driving into the city
On a Sunday morn
To put food out for
The homeless cats
Who live in the make-shift
Shelters I built isn’t forcing
Myself up or dodging the
Cops. The hardest thing is
Finding a spot to piss after
The 45 minute ride out.
Tired of pissing in a cup
In some lot scrutinized by
24 hour video cameras, once
I pulled into the budget
Supermarket. After stepping
In with a full bladder, a cute
Black rent a cop asked me if
I needed some help. She wasn’t
Impressed by me driving out
To feed homeless cats, but she
Did direct me to the facilities.
Afterwards, I considered buying
Something, but there was only
One cashier on and the line
Was long. After trying for a
While to exit the spot, I came
To realize that every other
Avenue of escape was blocked
As if to say get in line and buy
if you want to bounce out.
Well, I wasn’t having it, and
Once again, the Bratz Doll
In blue had to ask if I needed
Some help. She had a face and
Body, and the way her hips
Swayed made me wanna make
Swirl baby. But dolls aren’t
Moved to mate with old
Crackas who feed stray cats.
But it’s all for the best, I love
Sentient beings too much to
Want to bring any into a
World like this.
— FB
On the playground
At St. Mary’s Elementary,
I had a fantasy, really I
Had many. One featured
Me dying while defending
The sweetest-looking blue-
Eyed girl in school. Another
Fantasy starring me was about
A motorcycle race that had
Mysteriously been arranged
So that she herself was the
Winning prize. Both fantasies
Ended with me dying valiently,
As bloody and tragically-
Handsome as Jesus himself
Hanging on on the cross in
The Lord’s house. But I died
Happy both times, because in
Each fantasy, I breathed my
Last as she held me in her
Snow-white arms and didn’t
Even mind the blood
On her uniform dress.
I didn’t know then that first-
Prize girls don’t bother with
Losers, especially if they shed
Blood for them.
And so many
Love those who
Spill blood,
any blood,
Instead.
–FB
Had a poem in mind–
Real life with a theme,
But I just couldn’t
Type it up for you
Tonight. I’ve had too
Many at this titty bar
Tonight to type it up
For you right. I feel that
Soft music inside me,
As I drink these pale
Ales and do dance after
Dance with a baby-faced
little black dancer who
Sees me as a creepy-assed
Cracker even though I
Drive 20 miles to feed
Stray cats. You’d think
That if God was good
He’d make old guys
Love old girls, but it’s
Not like that. I’m spending
Har-earned cracka cash
On a five foot Bratz doll
Black girl who’s Betty Boop
Lashes and plushy ass make
Me feel alright for now even
Though my readers never
Buy my novel and I’m
Doomed to hell with no
Deliverance in sight.
Sure, you can claim that beauty Is subjective, etc. But that’s only True to a limited degree. There are beautiful types and vice versa in any human society, and the love they get far outweighs that bestowed upon the unlovely. Well, I guess I know what it is to be both and neither. There have been those who’ve considered me attractive, and a few still do. But since I’ve spent most of my life alone, unloved by most I was attracted to, I have to recognize that I am one of the unlovely. Well, it’s not the worst fate that
Can befall a human being. Lacking attractive force is like lacking one of the senses. A person who is unloved by those he or she could love romantically has more time to study, to express, to self-actualize really. And time enough is no small consolation prize. Lacking attractiveness can lead to a heightening of the empathetic-sense. Look at those who help out our fellow creatures of the not-so-human kind. And while it won’t win you or me the love of any super-models (no matter what some will claim), or get either of us 10,000 likes, empathy, sweet empathy, is a kind of beauty too.
— FB
There’s real danger
In canonizing
Anyone, and by
Canonizing
I mean looking at
Anyone as if
They’ve got a halo on.
Appreciate a person,
but in
A realistic and limited
Way. Don’t put a halo
On anyone, you’ll
Be safer this way.
— FB
This might just be
The closest thing
To a feel-good
Xmas missive
As you’ll ever get
From a guy with
A pen-name like
Mine: I consider
My Christmas as
Having begun
After work on the
Friday before the
Holiday itself. On
The way home to
My roof-leaking
“Mobile Home,” I
Pulled into the
“Executive’s Den,”
Where hardly an
Executive ever
Roams, but among
The dancers there
Who didn’t do much
To raise my Christmas
Cheer, I spied a doll-faced
Brunette with rockabilly
Tattoos covering only
Part of her Santa-sized
Ass. She sat curiously
Alone at the bar, so after
Having been propositioned
By a few of the others, I
Went up to the brunette
And asked for a dance.
And she was good
Enough to raise the
Lazarus moldering
In my shorts. She also
Claimed to have saved
A kitten in traffic, which
Raised her stock in my
Book too. Well, as I paid
Out the going rate there,
10 bucks a dance
(I’d been there only a week
Before) plus a cheery tip,
She held up the bills and
Said, “But this is only 65.00.
It’s 20 a dance.” I smiled and
Inquired when they’d changed
The price. She said only a little
While ago and added that all
All the girls there charge 20.
Well, I scrounged up the
Difference. I’d heard this
Song before. But she had
Delivered the dances, and
I hadn’t asked about her
Price first. Of course, after-
Wards I learned that no one
Else there at the time charged
20.00, and the house price
Hadn’t changed at all. I’m
Not mad though. This
Morn, as I approached
One of my makeshift
Homeless cat shelters
In the hood,
Several kittens ran out.
I emptied the bag of
Cat food, then I stuffed
Some fresh straw in the
Shelter. And I’d
Managed to do it all without
Getting caught. I know that
Karma and heaven are myths,
But seeing those kitties snug
In the shelter made me feel
Good. “The Kingdom of
Heaven is within,” as Mr.
Christmas said, and his
“Father’s house has many
Mansions,” too, and one of
Those mansions has a
Leaky-roof, another has
A makeshift shelter full
Of homeless cats, while
Another has a lovely,
Lying strip-club dancer
Whose rockabilly
Rear-end
Raises the dead. The
Kingdom of Heaven
Is within.
— FB
Buy my book on Amazon: Mail-Order Annie by Fyodor Bukowski.
Life is warfare,
Just ask Sun Tzu.
And to the victors
Go the best booties.
I’ve been through
Many battles, and
Have won more
Than a few, but I’m
Still struggling to
Win the big booty,
Or big booties, I
Should say. I’ll know
I’ve prevailed when
My nose is ass-deep
In a sumptuously-
Sculpted fresh one
Bending over my
Rented bed in an
Anonymous hotel
Somewhere. I’ll
Inhale the musky-
Sweet scent of
Victory-at-last. And
You, dear reader,
Can help my dream
Come true. So like
And share, far and
Wide. And why not?
I care for homeless
Cats, haven’t killed
Anyone yet, and provide
Free entertainment
To fellow wage slaves
Like you. If trash like
Vick can afford the
Best booty, why shouldn’t
I, or perhaps even
You?
— FB
I was Googling
A quote I half-
Remember, some-
Thing like “The clearest
View is from the bottom.”
Forgot who said it, but I
Know it’s true. Anyway,
My Google search led
Somewhere else: a quote
By Matt Haig: “The bottom
Of the valley never provides
The clearest view.” Well, tell
That to the gazelle being
Eaten alive by the lion,
Which never occurs in
The atmosphere, and tell
That to the guy at the
Bottom of any corporation,
Or corporations, since a
Bottom guy needs more
Than one job these days.
Anyway, I’m sure Matt
Sells a lot of books, with
Thoughts like that, since
Truth is a gazelle, and
The Lie is a Lion
Who always eats well
At the bottom
of any valley.
— FB
Like the seers of old
I see things coming:
heartbreaks,
absurd situations,
ugly episodes,
tragedies
both
private
and macrocosmic;
and like those hapless
seers of old,
there’s not much,
if anything,
I can do
to prevent
these tragedies
from playing
out
while the gods
and goddesses
look on
cold,
indifferent,
or non-existent,
as I stand
or fall
on the
raised altar,
a sacrifice
to pay for
the insipid lust
of the ancestors,
who,
after centuries
of hard-fated
tragedies,
and silent deities,
might have
known better.
— FB
Okay okay so I read
Another rock-star
Autobio, this one
By old slowhand
Himself. Yeah I know
He did great work
With Cream, Sunshine
of Your Love and all
That, but truth be told,
Any halfway decent
Blues-rock guitarist
Would have sounded
Great playing with
Ginger Baker and
Jack Bruce, the J.S.
Bach of the bass.
And those stunning
Lyrics were penned
By unknown poets,
Of course.
And really, everything
Original Eric did since
Was pretty lame stuff.
The first line of his
Book nearly put me
Off from reading it:
“Early in my childhood,
When I was about six or
Seven, I began to get the
Feeling that there was
Something different
About me.” Well Eric,
Most of us get that
Felling, so don’t wax
Too special.” But after
That the book got
Pretty good, and I was
Surprised to find that
Clapton was a fan of
Kenneth Patchen. But
As Bukowski wrote, it’s
Possible to like someone
If you don’t know them
Too well. Something like
That. So I wasn’t too shocked
To read that, after earning
Millions, buying cars, and
A barely-legal wife, old
Eric ruined my mostly
Positive view of him. As
He wrote: “…it was pigeons
Roosting in the eaves of our
House (mega mansion), cooing
In the evenings and waking up
The kids at five in the morning,
That tipped the balance. I went
Out and bought a shotgun…
Ethically it was never a problem
For me…” How lovely. Now I’m
A guy who loves peace and sleep,
But the sound of birdsongs never
Bugged me a bit. And even if it
Was an annoyance for his kids,
There had to be a better solution.”
So screw
Eric Clapton. Another “hero”
Bites the dust. But the crowds
Still scream his name in
A stadium near you, while
Robert Johnson died in
Agony as a very young man.
And as for me, who would
Cry for joy to hear the cooing
Of birds instead of blasting
Stereos everywhere, well, I’ll
Be lucky if one Blogger likes
This.
— FB
I don’t tell people
I know that my
Birthday is coming.
I don’t tell them
On my birthday
Either. I don’t want
Those few that I know
and care about to spend
Their money, because
They haven’t got much.
But being human, there’s
Always that penlight-sized
Spotlight of hope searching
The dark cave of my life
For something or someone,
Especially on a birthday,
That man-made boundary
In time that intensifies
Our hope for happiness
Or meaning. So I stopped
Down to a strip-spot I used
To visit, after the insane
Job, and after putting in
My earplugs to deaden the
Rap crap and hell metal, I
Spied a baby-faced, black-
Haired angel shaking her
Birthday-big white ass on
The stage. She looked me
Dead in the eyes with a look
That seemed to say that I
Was more than just my
Money. And despite all
The hard-lived lessons of
The past half century,
I began to half-believe,
Because I’m even dumber
On my birthday. So I stuck
A few bucks in her hard-
Pressed garter and said
That I enjoyed her acting
In Twilight 3. At least I
Don’t steal my lines from
Movies. And when her dance
Was done, she sat that birthday-
Sized sweet ass of hers down
Next to me. That and her face
Lit a few candles in my soul
Really. I told her that she looked
Like Lord Byron’s great great great
Etc. granddaughter, and when
That didn’t click, I said descendent
Of Elvis, which worked up a smile
On that cherubic face. Well, she
Shared a few things, like her
Studying to be a yoga instructor,
And I tipped her a five every
Several minutes, but she still
Hit me up for dances pretty
Quick, which I politely declined,
Saying I was enjoying my play-
Date and her luminous beauty
Too much to want to spoil it in
Some dark booth. And then
The light in her eyes dimmed
And her smile clicked off. She
Made an excuse about having
To talk to the “house mom.”
A few minutes later I saw her
And that luminous ass pressed
Against some other half-dead
Fool at the bar, who was
Smiling like it was his damned
Birthday in a universe that
Remembers.
— FB
I gloried in studying Latin
Before the jobs crucified
My concentrative powers.
All those Romans, wine
and togas and black
bangs flowing. All that
Poetry, Dramatic Tragedy,
And those epic orgies. People
who wonder why anyone would
Love a dead Language must
Be braindead not to realise
That all of the great languages
Have been dead for some time:
The language of Romance,
The language of Poetry,
The language of Free Thought,
Even the language of Logic
Itself, though they might
Seem to be alive sometimes,
Like the hot blood flowing
Through Catullus’ lines,
Or the proud look in the
Eyes of a statue of Venus
Or Augustus
Glowing alone and
Unloved in a museum
near you.
But those are only the
Echoes and shadows
Of life. The Romans
Are dead, just as is
The civilization they
Sculpted, sang,
Stabbed and screwed
Towards Olympus,
Dead as the one who
Writes
These lines.
— FB
I read the bios
Of certain rock
Stars. I like reading
About the their
Early struggles:
Keith, Mick, and
Brian sharing a flat,
knicking change
to feed the pay-
Heaters, Tony
Iommi persisting
With guitar after
Losing the tips of
His fingers, Ozzy
Getting by with one
Shirt on their first
Euro tour. I eat
These pages up
And am happy
For them when
They finally make
It. But the pages lose
Their flavor when I
Get to the long
Drug binges, wrecked
Hotel rooms, and the
Long trail of discarded
Virgins. I don’t think
It’s jealousy. It’s just
A matter of senseless
Excess, not to mention
Those poor virgins, and
The doves and bats 0zzy
Bit the heads off of. And
Then there’s the nagging
Realization that for most
of us, the early struggles
Never end and
Will never be
read about
By anyone.
— FB
My father has
Plagued this
Earth for 80
Years now.
Lying, whoring,
Driving away
Everyone he
Claimed to
Love with
His selfish,
Petty, sadistic
Ways. To this
Late day
He calls and
Invites his
Grown
Kids over.
Then before
We can even
Sit, he lights
Up and blows
Cancer stick
Smoke into
Our faces.
Still, he’s
Creeping
Up on the
Grave, so
For a while
I made an
Effort and
Visited him.
The last time
He stood there
In his boxers,
In his kitchen,
Puffing cancer
Into my face,
Then he opened
His voluminous
1980s fridge and
Pointed to a pizza
Box, the only thing
In there, besides a
Carton of milk. The
box held one
Last slice,
The lone leftover
From the pizza I’d
Brought to him and
Shared with him a
Week before. “Hey,
Don’t leave stuff
In my refrigerator,”
He said with his
Gruff, low voice.
Then it hit me.
All week, while
I’d been slaving,
He sat there
Fuming in
His kitchen,
Obsessing on
That pizza box
“Taking up the
Space” in his
Refrigerator.
I thought about
Asking him if
He really wanted
To spend his last
Days that way,
But I’d tried to reach
Him too many times
Over the years. And
The look on his grave
Face told me not to
Even try.
— FB
Amazing and not
In a wonderous
Way, nearly
Every store now
Asks for donations
At the cash register.
Just today, at Check
Smart, as I made a
Payment, I was
asked by a very
big girl wearing
A tiny pink hat
If I wanted to
Donate for
Breast Cancer
Awareness
Month. Being
Dead tired I
Said, “The best
Rarely blessed
Me with their
Breasts. They
Gave them to
Men who cheated
On and beat the
Crap out of them.
Again and again.
Those breasts and
Their cancers belong
To those men.” Little
Pink hat smiled and
Said, “That makes
Sense.” Then I went
To the strip club,
Dumped half a
Grocery bag of
Cat food near
There (can’t say
Where). Then I
Straggled into
the spot, where the
Freshest, best piece
There danced dance
After dance for a
Somewhat man-
Shaped
piece
Of crap.
— FB
Went to a clean,
Dimly-lit spot
For spaghetti
With marina
Sauce, no meatballs,
Thank you very much.
I used to like the place
Because they don’t blast
Music, the coffee is good,
And a low key vibe
Pervaded there. And
On the best nights, I
Enjoyed a dignified
Silence.
Of course,
Nothing even vaguely
Edenic ever Lasts long.
Today as I ate my spaghetti
A group of old gaffers invaded
The place, and the nauseatingly
Predictable prattle followed
In their wake: ball games,
Card games, Trump this,
Biden that. Even in their
Grizzled years, they
Remain unaware of
The real game. You’d
Think that after decades
Of being played, of chasing
aces in vain, that at
Least one of them would
Have something interesting
To say. But no, like Shoppenhouer,
No matter how long I loitered in
My booth, after the salad, I
Heard nothing indicative
Of heart or mind.
You’d think that after decades
Of losing lottery tickets,
Overbearing bosses,
Dull fat wives, and the
Betrayals of so-called
Friends, they would
Be strong enough to
Travel solo and bask
In a dignified silence.
Instead, it was cards,
Ball games, Trump this,
And Democrats that.
And so it went, and so it
Goes. Most men are truly
Cattle, but sans the dignified
Silence that cattle wear.
— FB
As the old saw goes,
Now I’ve seen it all.
A self-made millionaire
who made his money
helping college kids
become entrepreneurs
has used his genius IQ
to figure out that
soon automation
will put an alarming
percentage of Americans
out of work, many
permanently. Add to that
the fact that companies
like Amazon paid zero
dollars in taxes last year
feel little social
conscience and have
nothing to fear from
a president who thinks
that the wages of the
working poor are
“too high.”
Long story
short: we’re staring down
the double-barrel
of even more tent cities
popping up like deadly
mushrooms all across
this fruited-plane.
SO Yang has proposed
a “Freedom Dividend,”
1000.00 a month, for
every adult, regardless
of what other income they
might have or make. This
would take much of the
terror out of life, and allow
the peasants to stop and
smell the poppies, spend
more time with the tots
(or thots), and create music,
paintings, and other forms
of art…perhaps even become
entrepreneurs like Yang
himself. So what do the
overworked and underpaid
(and underlaid) masses
do when they hear
about all this? Like
the natural born slaves
and dupes they are,
they roll their sleepy eyes
and smile supercilliously
as if the possibility
of a humane existence
is all too-good-to-be-true,
just like the well-heeled
gatekeepers have
trained them to do.
And then they vote
for liars, child-molesters,
and the progeny of
slave-masters, just as
they have always done,
century after century,
while fancying themselves
discerning and free. And
the moral of this story?
It might be something
like this: “the freedom of
those who know ends
where the “freedom”
of fools begins.”
— FB
Musings, Mutterings, and Condemnations 