On Seeing a Fallen Squirrel in the Road

I’m not going to launch into my

usual disgust for humanity. I’ve

waxed that before, but would it

have been too much for whatever

fat vaxxed slob who hit him

or her to have checked to make

sure he or she was out of misery

before moving the squirrel out of

the road? Well, once again the God

of Creatures left that up to slovenly

me. After seeing that he or she wasn’t

moving, I grabbed the tail and pulled

the squirrel onto a large envelope

and carried him or her into a shaded

little alcove off the road. Of course to

be eaten by other creatures , a far less

obscene fate than to be smeared across

the road by fat vaxxed creatures I never

want to meet.

–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

Nice People

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:

my book