We all stood by the door
Waiting for it to open
So we could get in
Out of the cold
And start our
Impossible jobs
The other wage slaves
Chatted merrily
About everything
Trivial and permitted
As they always did
Because they were nice
And I stood glumly by
Wondering why they
Were alive
One of the nicest of them
Gushed at a skinny cat
That appeared at his feet
He bent down and petted it
And said it was a nice cat
I cursed under my breath
Stared into the snow
Then went to my car and popped
The glove compartment
And took the can of cat food
From off of the gun and
Headed back to the shivering
Mass of slaves
And the cat
I opened the can
And dumped the food but
The cat wouldn’t eat
A middle aged liberal woman
cooed at the cat
While the guy who’d been
Petting it stood up and said
Somebody should take the
Cat. The liberal lady turned
Away and continued the
inane and safe conversation
she’d
Been leading before. I though
Of my small place and five
Cats and asked the nice people
If one of them would take
Him or her
Most stared at the door
A few made lame excuses
As nice people do
I petted the cat and looked
For a tag
there wasn’t one
The door opened and the
Slaves filed in. I scruffed
The cat, carried her to the
Car and put her under a
Coffee-stained
Blanket covering the
Coffee stains on the passenger
Seat. I waited until lunch
Then drove her to
To my ramshackle place
With a No Nice People
Sign on the front door
–Fyodor Bukowski
Buy my book, you cheap bastards:
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
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
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
