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

 

 

 

Fat Jeff

Jeff was the fattest

Kid at St. Mary’s

Elementary, and we

Teased him mercilessly.

We didn’t mean to be

Mean. We didn’t plan

Our taunts and jibes.

Our cruelty came as

Naturally as the rain

And lightning. It went

On for years, while Jeff

Started jogging, first

Just down his street

At night, then all the

Way to the mall and

Back. By seventh grade

He ran track, lifted

Weights, played quarter-

back, and was making it

With one sweet cheerleader,

While we, his former

Tormentors spent

Most nights with Ms.

January. Fat Jeff had

chisled himself

Into a lean, mean, sex

Machine. Of course, we

Had something to do with

His transformation. He told

Me as much years after. I’m

Not proud of my former

Cruelty, I told him, one

Day at my house as I

Showed him the riff

To “Day Tripper” on

my Korean guitar.

“Don’t worry ’bout it,”

He said, flashing a

James Dean grin. And

To tell the truth, I don’t.

Our jibes and fat jokes

Made Jeff a better man.

But I’m not too proud of

That either. Had he been

Made of softer stuff, he

Might have killed himself,

And I would have had a

Tough time with that. So

While the past was

Too cruel, the present

May be too kind. How

Many Fat Jeffs today

Lose out on Cheerleader

Booty because

Fat-shaming is uncool

These days? Today’s

Kids fail to comprehend

The meaning behind

Nature’s harsh ways.

Mother Nature is

Cruel, but beautiful

Too.

— F.B.

 

 

 

 

So Foolish

It was so Foolish

Being human,

Always living

In the future

Or the past,

Luxuriating in

Mind-invented

Realms because

We never fit

In the real one.

All those word-

Games called

Philosophies,

Waking up

To shrill alarms

And slaving

Away the days

Just to buy an

Hour or two

Of dreams.

It was something,

It was nothing,

It was too little,

It was too much,

Yet some of the

Transcendence

Came from stepping

Away from our own

Species to hear the

Cries of others.

There was no God

To hear them,

And perhaps

The most horrible

Thing of all was

Realizing that we

Are the closest

Beings to deities

That this universe

Has created yet.

— FB

 

 

 

 

The Shudder

There have been signs

As of late, impossible

Situations, intractable

Problems, strange bumps

On the skin, headaches

That take days to die,

and the Shudder that sizzles

Up the spine whenever

It slugs me that my best

Days have run away

Like slaves only to

Be brought down

By the laughing

Dogs of time.

So many signs,

Like the song

That sings

I’ll never

Feel the love of

A lovely woman

Again. Signs screaming

My name in the dead

Of day as the

Sun crucifies me

Yet again. Signs

Tapping signals

Into my brain,

Telling me that

If I have anything

Left to say I should

Say it soon, and that

If there’s anything

Left to slay I should

Slay it soon, and

That if I have any

sacrifices left

To make, I should

Make them soon,

Soon,

Soon,

Soon

 

— FB

 

The Lump

Found a lump

On my body

In an impolite

Place the other

Day. Can’t say it

Was a shock. Cancer

Runs in the blood.

Can’t imagine leaving

The cats behind. But

Then again, I can’t

Imagine another

Couple of

Decades or more of

This life either. So while

It wasn’t fun finding the

Lump, I did meet it with

A certain equanimity, even

Something like relief

Muddied up with fear

Of pain. If it Is the big C,

There will be no chemo 

For me, that much

I know. Life was

Nauseating enough,

And I chuckle at

The though of

Asking anyone

To pray.

Either way,

Once you’ve hit a

Certain age, Most

things are 

Anticlimactic

Anyway; so wish

me luck or no luck.

If you’re a fan, or not

So much, all I ask is that

You try to do something

To lessen the sufferings

Of animals. And even

Though you never

Read my novel,

Thanks anyway.

 

— FB

 

 

 

Something Rather Than Nothing

Philosophers and

Physicists have

Asked themselves

Why there is

Something rather

Than nothing. And

I ask myself this too.

And why, if there has

To be something, why

This blood-stained

Food chain that binds

Living beings in a cage

Of horrors, softened only

By beauty, intoxicants,

And lies? And the first

Of these is beauty, hard

To grasp for most of us,

While intoxicants

Have side-effects.

That leaves mostly lies

For the masses, who

Lap them up like

Ambrosia and gobble

Them down like

Golden apples, so

They can believe

Themselves to be

Minor dieties

Or at least something

More sacred than

Mere predators

And prey.

 

— FB

 

 

 

 

 

Clean Scum

It’s amazing

How many

Times I’ve

Sought just

Peace and

Refreshment

At a diner or

Bar, only to

Have Within

Seconds

Of being seated

Some troll

With a mop

Or Spray bottle

Trash my drinking

solace or dining

experience by 

Spraying deadly

Cleaning chemicals

On a bar that was

Already clean. Just

Now a squat, obese

Creature came up

Behind me at

The Denny’s

Counter and

plopped a mop

in a bucket 

Filled to the brim

With Amonia and

Who knows what

Else, creating a toxic

Cloud that within

Seconds scalded my

Throat so badly that

I got up and seated

Myself by the old

Fart who amused

Himself by calling

The hapless young

Waitress honey,

Sweetheart, dear,

Etc. then chortling

About it throughout

The course of my

Brief meal and scalding

My soul in the process.

Toxic clouds of unnecessary

Cleaning agents and loads

Of dumb rude retired

Boomers everywhere.

Leave the counters

And floors be, scrub

Slaves, or at

Least don’t sanitize

Them every five

Minutes for me.

I recall

Reading about

American tourists

In Henry Miller’s

Day leaving French

Restaurants aghast

That the French had

A few other things to

Do with their lives

Beside scrubbing

Everything in sight

Constantly, as though

Americans could

Ever clean up the mess

They’ve made of

Nearly every pure

And perfect thing.

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

Another

Another day

That started

Too early

And ended

Too late

Another 24

Closer to

The ultimate

Fate

Another open-

Eyed opossum

Dead in the road

As the procession

Of scum

Drives by

Another punk

With nothing

Better to do than

Throw M80s

At frogs and

Other buddhas

Too enlightened

Now to ever

Come back

Another high

School teacher

 And her class

Disecting some

Defenseless

Peaceful creature

Or other

Another splitting

Skull ache

And aching back

As the carnival

Of ugly pain

Sets it’s tents

And bloody

Banners

Ever higher

Into the sky

Long empty

Of gods and

Goddesses

Who might

Be willing

Or able

To supply

A reason why

So sling me

Another

Over this bar

As the sad,

Ageing,

And less-than-

Stellar girls

Dance. Some

Had the magic

Healing power

Once upon a

Time but

Wasted it

On the

Cruel and

Worthless.

Knowing

That helps

Me curb my

Natural sense

Of sympathy

So I’m not

Tempted to

Tip them

Too much

 

— FB

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reality is a Blind Piano Player in a Two-Bit Tavern on Hell’s Western Frontier

He sits on that puke-

Stained stool playing

The same old songs

Ad infinitum and

The hell with you

If you don’t know

What that means

Again And again

Without mercy

For too many

And with tenderness

For too few does

He tinkle those

Ebony and Ivory

Keys he never

Changes century

After century

Even as those

Bullets whiz by

His hoary head

He just grins

And plays those

Tragic, comical,

And tragicomical

tunes

For most as they

Straggle in dust

And blood-covered

And even those

Filled with arrows

And slugs suffer his

Discordant melodies

Sometimes

One will drink enough

Rotgut to call out a tune

Like Everything’s Coming

Up Roses or I’m in the

Money, and you should

See the piano player’s

Smile then….I’ve seen

It and heard his tunes

For lifetimes now.

Sometimes he’ll play

Just a Little Tenderness

If I look bad enough

Coming back from the

Not So OK Corall, but

Mostly it’s his sick

Or melancholy stuff

That I hear on my

Way to the bar to

Drink alone as the

Gamblers sit and

Lift marked cards

From dogeared decks

Even the saloon girls

There seem to be

Getting uglier lately

So I head on over to

The Last Chance

Spot where those

Baby-faced black

Girls lie just as much

But throw those

Velvety curves

Right in my stubbly

Face

And the dj plays

Those funny ass

Raps that crack

Me up

 

— FB

 

FB

 

 

 

 

Lone Duck

Sad to see

so many sights,

like seeing you,

lone duck,

ambling along

the interstate.

Wish I could

whisk you to

some happier place,

but I’m stuck

here myself.

Wish I could

mind-meld 

with you

and learn why

you’re walking

alone.

Did you lose

your mate?

Or are you

hurt? Either way,

I can relate. Or

was the duck pack

you flew with

too little and

too much to take,

like this endless

stream of

inhuman

humans

buzzing fly?

I wish I

could do more

than write this

poem as you

walk alone,

head down,

along the

interstate,

as I used to do,

so many years

ago, when I

thought that

any road

might take me

somewhere

more and

yet less

human

than here.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

Fyodor wrote a highly-rated mold-shattering novel that no one reads. The readers who are left are too busy reading tripe “written” by moronic celebrities. Thanks, for nothing, morons.  Here’s the link no one will click: Mail-Order Annie

 

Suicide

I’ve done it

in my mind

so long ago…

The bad guys

kept winning,

and the angels

kept dying. So

I did it in my

mind, though

I let my body live

for my mom’s sake

and for the cats.

But the body

still lives and

even breathes

sometimes. Coffee

is good, and music,

and reading the

words of the great

dead ones too. As for

the rest of you, with

your ball games

and your lawns,

I leave you to

the hell that idiocy

and cowardice

have carved out

for you, as I

stride, ghost

that I am,

through your

once-proud

dying days.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

Like a Sovereign

Unlike the

idiot masses

of mental

slaves,

I’m not limited

in my thoughts

and values

according to

the time and

place my body

happens to

inhabit.

Just recently

I’ve immersed

myself in

old-timey

“Hillbilly”

Life,

though I’m

a modern

Northerner

by birth.

(vicious fate).

Of course much

of the old

Appalacian

ways have

been destroyed

by the forces

behind modernity,

but I can imagine

a life of pure

mountain

air, log cabins

built a kingly

distance apart,

barefoot Ellie

Mays, and blue-

grass energy.

It’s just what my

city-soaked soul

needs. And while

I can only live

there and then

mentally

for now and

perhaps the 

rest of this life,

( or at least

until the aliens

agree to whirl

me back to 1893,)

in the

meantime I can

dream and play

those old

Appalacian

melodies

on my dulcimer

and stand atop my

solitary mountain

like a Sovereign 

looking downing

on a life that 

I could choose

to lead,

compete with a

a no-mortgage

log cabin, rows of

corn, and kids who

feel and

think like me.

(There’s no

generation gap

in a real society.)

And I’ll love in 

my mind that

mountain flower

of a wife

waiting in the 

bedroom with

a banjo on

her

knee.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Danger in Romanticizing

 

A woman’s

hand, no matter

how much

it might

resemble a

dove,

isn’t one.

Seeing it as a

dove is

something

poets and

others who

romanticize

reality do.

And while

that can

be a lovely

way of looking

at life, it’s also

a dangerous

thing too —

especially when

that “dove”

flies

into your

wallet and

uses the

leaves

it finds

there

to fortify

a nest

in an

unromantic

heart.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

Nothing Fits

They closed

The last shoe

Store in town,

So there I was

At Wal-Mart

Once again,

Searching

For a pair

Of loafers,

Size 10 Wide,

And seeing

Instead, once

Again, every

Size but that

On the shelves.

But I wasn’t

Alone in this:

Two old ladies

We’re also

Scouring those

Shelves. They

Look thin and

Bedraggled as

Though life had

Given them too

Much and yet

Not enough.

Meantime, I

Smirked to

Myself at the

Loafers sized

9, 9/12, and

You guessed it,

No size 10, when

It came to men’s

Loafers, though

They had the tie-

Up kind, but who

Has time and

Energy for that,

So I grabbed a

Pair of 10 1/2

And sat down

To try them on.

All the while, out

Of the corner of

My eye, I spied

The old ladies

Still searching

The selves, until

One of them

Plopped her

Bones down

On a bench

And Stared

blankly

Ahead and softly

Muttered to

Herself “Nothing

Fits,” again and

Again. The other

Went over and

Put her arms

Around her,

And they sat

Together like

That, rocking

Back and forth

For a while as

I tried to walk a

Few steps in

The soon-to-

Be-mine loafers,

Nearly breaking  

my Neck because

these 20 dollar shoes,

Fashioned by

Slave labor in

Bangladesh,

Were Fastened

 Close together

By a cord I couldn’t

Snap. As I walked

To the check out

Counter I

could still hear

The one lady

Saying “Nothing

Fits,” louder

And louder,

And I knew

Enough to know

That she wasn’t

Just talking about

Shoes.

— Fyodor Bukowski

Buy my acclaimed novel for just a few bucks to help me and stray cats, you worthless ______s. My Novel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eternal Recurrence

Nietzsche wrote that

The real challenge is

To be willing to live

Your same life

With all of its

Horrors and

Absurdities

again and 

Again, ad

Infinitum.

And I have

To think

That it was

This thought

That drove

Him to the

Loony bin.

It wasn’t

“God is dead.”

I can handle

God being dead,

But not this life

Or anything like

It even one more

Time.

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where it is

The daily nightmares

keep coming

like them always have

like they always will:

dead animals

in the road,

endless scams,

both virtual

and in-your-face,

watching the

worthless

and the evil

scooping up

goodies,

age after age,

and of course,

like Siddhartha

said: sickness,

old age,

and death.

But

there are moments

that present

themselves

nearly everywhere

that often go

unlived

even though

they offer us what

we’ve really been

looking for

all along.

This morning

after feeding

the cats, I put

the water pot

on the burner

to to make

coffee. I was

in a hurry to

go and cancel

my credit card

after that “free

CBC oil you only

pay shipping

scam.” But after

preparing my cup,

one of

my black cats

jumped up on

the kitchen

table and cried

like she does

when she wants to

jump in my lap;

so I plopped down

in the chair

sipped my coffee

as she purred and

made biscuits with

her paws against

my chest. Slow sip

after sip, sitting

there in the semi-

dark, and feeling

each breath,

I realized

that there was

nowhere I’d rather

be and no

greater

moment

to be sought.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

Fyodor Bukowski’s Special Day

I awoke to the soul-

soothing hum of the

window AC, with my

leukemia-positive

rescue cat “Ma Ma”

at my side

on the tolerably-

lumpy futon in

the bedroom of

the not-at-all

mobile “mobile

home” I’ve lived

in now for 16

years. Then

I pried open the 

cat-shredded

guitar case

beside the futon

and pulled out

my all-mahogany

Chinese guitar and

picked n strummed

for a while, stopping

only to wet my

whistle on the

can of generic

ginger ale I’d

started the night

before. Of course,

I had to pull the

sandwich-bag

affixed with a

rubber band

from off the can

first, a precaution

to prevent any-

thing creepy crawly

from getting

inside, you

understand.

Then I

stumbled to

the “living room”

to feed and clean

up for the other

cats. Afterwards,

I chatted it up a 

on the net a bit

with a Vietnamese

cutie, whom I’m

afraid I’ll never

meet. But hey,

they just don’t

make ’em like

that around

here, know what

I mean? And

following that,

I read and

posted some

triggering

memes you’d

have to see to

believe. And

all this to

the sound-

track of the

park manager’s

lawn mower

mowing up and

down and down

and up the length

and breadth of my

considerably-

sized front and

back lawns. And

all this made

me yawn and

smile a special

smile on my

special day.

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of 51lV9z8aeYL (1)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Are You the Same Person Who Came in Through the Door?

I tried to concentrate

on the words of the

Buddhist giving his

dharma talk. But the

dog outside kept

barking, and the fat

cat named Karma kept

purring on my lap. I

liked the purring, and

though I like dogs too,

the constant barking

was really too much.

But at the time I scolded

myself for being bothered

it and surmised that I just

wasn’t enlightened enough.

So I peeled my eyes from

the fantastic ass of the

nubile young woman sitting

lotus style in front of me,

and put them back onto the

Buddhist giving the dharma

talk. “You’re Not the Same

Person who Came in Through

the Door Only Moments ago,”

he said before explicating

that we are not really

separate, discreet entities,

and that the only thing that’s

constant is change, etc. I’m

sure you’ve heard it all before,

in one form or another, “Each

man is your brother, ” et al.

Well, in a purely scientific

sense, I may not be exactly

the same man now as the one

who’d walked into that

Buddhist temple so many

years ago, but I still can’t stand

dog owners who tie their dogs

up on short leashes for extended

periods of time, to the point

where they bark incessantly

for help. And something in

the wisdom of the blood still

knows that a young woman’s ass

is worth more than any

philosophical stuff. And yeah,

the dog belonged to the jerk who

gave the dharma talk.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

People Don’t Change

“People Don’t Change,”

was my mom’s reply

to my dad. With his

barrel chest, Popeye

forearms, and wannabe

Bolshevik beard, there

he was on his knees

in front of her in the

laundry room, tears

streaming down his

beard as he begged

her to take him back

because, he claimed,

“People can change.”

I was 11 and didn’t know

then whether he or she

was right. But now, after

after losing two more wives,

and the love and respect of

all of his kids, and with one

foot and a frayed pant leg in

the grave, he’s still the same

grumpy, delusional, cheap,

lying, petty, and idiotically

violent S.O.B. he’d always been.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

 

 

 

Strong Enough

I can’t stop

Thinking that

Some might

Not be

Strong enough 

Or wise enough

Or dumb enough

Or rich enough

Or lucky enough

To make it

Through.

The forces and

The fates

Can be

And often are

Too much.

I can’t stop thinking 

About Van Gogh

Pulling the trigger 

With trembling

Finger

After Love

And religion

And art had

Failed him.

Then there’s

Hemingway’s

Brain splattered

Against the wall.

And I’m haunted

By the video

Of a Factory farm pig

Shaking with terror

On a freezing

Metal floor

To a soundtrack

Of slaughter

And I can’t stop

Knowing

That a friend

I’ll never meet

Suffers near-

Constant headaches

And I can’t stop

Seeing the face

Of a dancer

Whose illness

Mystified the

Doctors until

She decided to

Sleep it off

forever.

Then I consider

Those who will

Read this, with

Their dead-end

Jobs and hope-

less loves, then

Something like

Strength rises

in me and  roots

for them

And me

And you too

To somehow

Find enough

Strength

To make it

Through.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

* See my novel Mail-Order Annie on Amazon.

.

 

 

How Horrible it is to See You

The same faces, voices, bodies

sent to my life from the cosmic

soup cooked up wherever and

whenever life began. The vast

majority of these faces, voices,

and bodies bring me nothing

but grief. How horrible it is

to see them: the neighbors

always driving by nearly

every time I amble to my

car or the park dumpsters.

Their heads turning to zoom

in on my wild, unkempt hair.

The park manager, with his

fault-finding stare surveying

the failing condition of my

not-so-mobile home. The

creatures who’ve been

sent by merciless chance

to evaluate my work

each and every grinding

day, jobs they and their

supervisors have made

impossible, of course.

The horrible faces

with mis-shapen bodies

attached,

driving by the wounded

and starving “higher

animals” of four legs

on the gore-splattered roads

humanity has paved.

Would it have been

too much for that prick-

in-the-clouds to have

sent one lovely human

face with a heavenly

body attached to help

me most of the way

through this hell-

of-a-life? Well, maybe

Hell is too strong a word,

it’s more like a mostly-

painful purgatory of sorts,

truth be told. And when I

die, may I only see those

furry faces of the non-human

kind, the ones I’ve saved and

those I wasn’t

able to save, waiting for me

with love in their eyes,

and maybe, just maybe,

one human face with

a lovely form attached,

who might whisper my

name.

 

— FB   Buy my novel, you horrible bastards: MAIL-ORDER ANNIE