Some want that Ninja life
crouched down over the
gas tank, zooming and buzzing
up and down life’s roads.
I’d rather lean back low
behind the gleaming
high handlebars of an
American chopper.
Think Peter Fonda
in Easy Rider.
Riding Easy
Taking it slow
It’s the way a man
travels when he knows
that there’s really
nowhere
to
go.
— Fyodor Bukowski
I try texting this doll face
I’d enjoyed some dances from
At a hole in the wall club
Years ago. Absurd, I know.
Then I get the inevitable
reply: “Who is this?” Without
punctuation of any kind.
The reply opens up a
Pandora’s box of worms.
So I leave the lid closed.
A few minutes later I get
a cryptic text from a different
Number with a different area
Code:
in a long time how have
you been” I reply: “Who is
this please?” A few minutes
later: “Is this not Elly? This is
Danielle. Don’t you remember?”
And that reply came with a pic
of a professionally dressed cute
Asian lady. What are the chances
I smirk and sigh. Like Charlie
Brown with the football I have
to try. Long story short a few
texts later I determine the sender to
Be a scammer unrelated to the
baby faced black girl from the
trap.
Who is this? Who is this?
It’s the question Emperor Wu
Asked the Bodhidharma.
It’s the question Jesus asked
his apostles. The question we
ask of someone we thought
we knew until…
and it’s the question
I ask you
and myself
too
–Fyodor Bukowski
Buy my novel on Amazon.
I sometimes chance upon a
video so ludicrous that it makes
me smile. Once involves a certain
Hollywood actor famous for playing
a pirate based on the mannerisms of
Keith Richards. I don’t watch films, but
that’s all well and good. I understand
his character brings great joy to young
and old. But to see him barely playing
guitar while costumed like a reject from
a Guns n Roses cover band and sharing
the stage with Jeff Beck no less is a
bit much, especially for a guy like me who takes
shots of Pepto-Bismol to get through
tbe day. Keith Richards
gave everything he had to his music
and that’s why he’s still legit up there
while guys like Johnny just don’t deserve
that stage. Is Jeff Beck so starved for
attention? Does he think he might get
Sloppy seconds on some of Johnny’s
teenaged fans? I smile as I think of all
the starving and talented guitarists out there
Who could be saved by playing with Jeff.
Then I find that Johnny’s talents extend
to the world of painting and who knows
what else. It’s gratifying to know that
That his paintings sell while Van Gogh
died unrecognized. Of course, the moronic
Will attribute all this to envy and hate,
But I don’t begrudge the man his acting
Accolades or his wealth. In fact,
I googled “Johnny Depp animal rights” in
The hopes of finding some nugget about
Wonderful things he’s done for animals,
But what came up was an allegation
From his ex that he dangled their dog
Out a car window and threatened to put
It in a microwave. Hollywood Vampire
And cartoony Keith Richards knock off
Pirate, man of myriad talents and owner of
one
Hell of a greasy self satisfied smirk, I
Salute you, American hero, Johnny Depp.
— Fyodor Bukowski
I was teaching guitar lessons
at a mom and pop music shop
when Jack and his pop came in.
He wanted to play classic rock,
which was what I was weaned on,
so I got him into Wolf Marshall’s
Basics 1 book and before too long
he was playing “Sympathy for the
Devil” and “Jumping Jack Flash,”
etc. though he seemed a bit slow
in some ways and clearly preferred
playing Dungeons and Dragons with
a collection of nerds on the net to
practicing his minor pentatonic scales.
All in all, he was an ok kid, though his
progress was glacial, I liked his musical
taste because he smiled when I
demonstrated this or that piece or let
loose with some licks. One day he came
in ranting about what someone had said
about something Bill Gates had said, and
Though I soon steered his attention to
musical matters at hand, it struck me as
Strange that he should defend old Gates
with such vehemence, but I chalked it up
to honor among nerds. Well, it was the
year of COVID, and before long Jack
developed a nasty habit of sneezing in
that tiny lesson room, which in itself was
ok, except for the fact that he never
Covered his mouth and one sneeze hit me
across the face like a splash. I presented
him with one of the clear face shields the
owner of the place handed out, but Jack
always managed to take it off in the
middle of the lesson, sneeze up the place,
then saunter into the lesson room the very
next week like nothing had happened.
Long story short, I ended up calling
his mom and explained the matter in
a message. With much finesse, I said
that he was a great kid but might be
allergic to the cat hair on my clothes, etc.
and suggested he try one of the other
teachers. And while it wasn’t a “gas gas
gas” to have to fire him like that, at least
I’m one nerd less likely now to get another
splash of spit across my face.
— fyodor bukowski
What happened to that me
Who picked up old receipts
Off the road half-expecting
To see messages from God
Written on them
Or that me who rode my mini-bike
Past the lovely girl’s house
Dozens of times a day
Half expecting to see her
Walk down that long driveway
To wave me into her life
Or that me who got into that old
Nash Rambler with my half-psycho
Father every Sunday to suffer his
Lies and cigarette smoke and farts?
What happened to that me who prayed
for a UFO to land in my backyard to
take me to a planet full of honest
full-time fathers, a God who spoke
directly to all who called,
and a lovely girl with my name
In her heart?
— Fyodor Bukowski
Read my novel on Amazon.
there is pain so great
it cant be written
or sung
there are poems
that should never
grow tongues
great pain when fresh
writes no poems
it knows only
contorted faces
acid tears
ugly howls
and silence.
i would have
Made myself
Silent and
softened these
features forever
Were it not for
Those innocent eyes
which accomplished
what religions
and women
failed to do
because if i open
that drawer
and end this pain
with one pull
what would they do
but starve
and go mad
with questions
not to be answered?
their innocent wide
Moist eyes
like little worlds
exerting gravitational pull
enough
to keep me
bound to this
howling rock
for God knows
how long
i was writing an epic poem
in ottava rima and was told
by a few of discerning taste
and acerbic tongue that
it was funny, and witty, and
original, but after a day
followed by many others days
of
crushing labor and a neighbor’s
barking dog and a hard on with
nowhere special to go it’s all I
can do to write like this:
a desperate poem
from a desperate man
to other desperate souls:
when the brain bleeds
the pen screeds.
driving around
Looking for a place
to order food
but the only spot
open is a Chinese
place where a stunningly
lovely girl works, but I can’t
have her for Christmas and
there are too many man-
sized children standing
around
Wearing baseball caps
so I drive off
with only my liberty
and dignity intact
Of limited use is any
holiday when the dumb
slaves get the day
off too
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
she came to my back door
winters ago
with two kittens
in tow
i took them in
the vet said all three
had feline leukemia
the kittens passed
soon after
and mama took to
grooming me instead
licking my thinning hair
until strands of it
hung from her tongue
I would pet mama
and tell her she will
one day see her
babies again
and when I cried out
“Mama!” when the
nightmares came
as they’d come since
i was a child, mama cat
was the only one to run
to my side, lick my face,
and remind me that i
wasn’t motherless
after all
this went on
for several years
Until this morning
as i was leaving for
work, having already
counted my other cats
i then found mama
open eyed and on
her side partially covered
in her own urine
though she’d seemed fine
just yesterday
the vet said it might
have been a heart attack
I whispered goodbye
and told her
we will be together
again. And the pain now
Can’t be explained.
For her, and myself,
I prayed the
Rainbow Bridge prayer
and to St. Francis and
Jesus too, then I
searched for a Buddhist
prayer, and though
it spoke of animals
as being our mothers
in past lives,
it would have
me pray for her to be
reborn human, and I
love Mama too much
for that. She was and
still is my Mama
in this life.
–fb
Musings, Mutterings, and Condemnations 