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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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