The Rotting Retreads

once in a while I can’t help myself

and check the old social media

to see what the old friends

and hot asian girls I’ll nevet

are up to. today I made just

that mistake. An old pal

posted a video of his new

band made up of old farts

in splashy shorts playing

and singing “Respect” by

you know who. And the

rest of the set list was

just as dusty. Far better

it would have been to

have written and played

anything original, even

if screamed or whispered

to the most basic of chords.

Yet by all appearanced the

fattened human cattle

there would disagree..

how they shook their

grey locks and sang.

And how they clutched

onto (like there will be

no tomorrow)

the pizza slices that

they got for taking

an experimental vaccine.

–fb

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Stingy With Compliments

a tatted teen pulled a pointy guitar

off the wall, plugged in and shredded

away with tapped arpeggios, 3 note per

string runs, power chords, etc. It was all

too fast for me but dizzyingly well done.

nobody said anything after he

stopped playing. The cabbage patch girl

had been busy with her phone

behing the counter and the

shoppers were too occupied with

their own rock star dreams

to care enough to say anything

either. I pulled a steel-bodied

guitar off the wall, sat on the

stool, and played some 30’s

ragtime and then some Lightning

Hopkins licks with my index and

middle fingers while my thumb

beat out a bass rhythm. No one

gave a glance and Cabbage

Patch behind the counter

thinking no one was looking,

bent over and

shot a selfie of her fat

round ass.

–fb

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Fat Sounds He Made

One of the best pleasures

a sensitive human being

can have in this realm

is to luxuriate in the sound

of Andres Segovia

pressing his fat, sausage-

shaped fingers into and

against the nylon strings

of a classical guitar.

Segovia (1893-1987)

rescued the guitar

from the “noisy fingers”

of Flamenco players

in his native Spain,

and he brought

the guitar to the

concert stage

and the music of

Bach, Schumann,

and other supreme

spinners of heart-tearing

soul-healing melodies.

I’ve listened to packs

of classically-trained

guitarists since Segovia

passed, but not one of

them comes close to

the sounds he made,

especially when he’d

play a chord, which

then died away,

except for one lone

note, which he rocked

back and forth with

a sausage-shaped

finger in his

unashamedly-

romantic way.

So much so that

many modern

classical guitarists

now mock his

style as “sentimental.”

 

But what they fail

to undertand is

that in music as

in life, it often

comes down to

that one person

one moment

one note

sounding

long after

the others

have

faded

away.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie