A Glass Jar Away

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

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Skunk 130

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

Francis the Homeless Cat

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

My Life as a Chopper

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

Who is This?

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:

“We haven’t seen you

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.

Johnny Depp, Rock Star ūüėÜ

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

Sneezin’ Jack Splash

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 Who I Used to be?

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.

poem i couldnt write

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

When the Brain Bleeds

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.

Beggars

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

Cam Girls of Colombia

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

The Rotting Retreads

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

Stingy With Compliments

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

Not to Hurry

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

Behold the Saint

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

Tough Bumpers

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

Every One

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

Even the Beggars Were Better Then

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

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

Ambient Hum

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Sport Like Life

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

 

 

 

 

4:00 am at Denny’s

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

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 Yin and Yang of (Just About) Every Thang

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Ugly Lasts

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

 

Ted Kaczynski

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t Feel too Bad for the Fading Beauties

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So Kobe Crashed

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

No Ass

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

The Delusional Animal

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

Best Theory Yet

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 Maze

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

The Martyr

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

Couldn’t

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.

The Unlovely Unloved

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

Beware the Halo

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

The Kingdom is Within

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.

War Prize

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

 

 

 

 

The Clearest View

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

 

 

 

 

Seeing it Coming….

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

One Blogger Likes This (for Eric Clapton)

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day After My Birthday

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dead Languages

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

 

The Consequences of Not Becoming a Rock Star

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Most Never Learn

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

 

 

 

 

Donations

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

 

 

 

 

A Dignified Silence

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

 

Yang for Emperor

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Have a Plan for God’s Life

I keep getting these

Texts telling me

That God has a plan

For my life. Never

Mind the question

As to why God has

To spam my phone

To get my attention,

Let’s stick to the whole

“Plan” part. Without

Going into detail here,

I can say, looking back

On my life, that the

Idea of an all-knowing

And loving creator

Scripting the part I’ve

Had to live is far more

Absurd than the notion

That there’s no sky daddy

at all. And I don’t

Mean absurd in a fun and

Wacky way. Unless,

You’re one of the very

Lucky ones, you know,

if you’re willing to¬†look at

your Life honestly. What

I’m¬†Tempted to text back is

That I have a plan for

God’s Life. And that plan

Is to force him, her, it, or

Whatever, to suffer every

Indignity and horror that

Each and every one of “his”

Sentient creations has had

To face: from living in a state

Of ulcerous stress, all the way

Up to torture, rape, and murder,

Not just the pain that humans

Have had to endure, but let’s

Work in the misery of the

Little bleeding piglets crying

Out for their mothers on the

Factory farms’ killing floors

So the duped deists can

Munch their bacon. And of

Course, so many

Other sentient horrors

Too innumetable to

Begin to list. One

Crucifixion, which didn’t

Happen as advertised,

Wasn’t enough.

 

— FB