Who is This?

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:

“We haven’t seen you

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.

What Happened to Who I Used to be?

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.

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

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

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

Not to Hurry

life is tough enough

and lovely enough

that having to Hurry

through it is a screaming

shame. I remember being

led into a simple hut

in a Peruvian rainforest

and introduced to

a family, all wearing

something like loincloths,

a fool might call them

them poor, but they

fished together

and stayed together

said the tour guide,

she added that they

woke up when

Nature told

them to, not an alarm

clock.

and I still can see

those beaming smiles

and pudgy brown

bodies in my mind

driven mad many times

by the West’s “progress.”

They handed me a big

urn of something that

the tour lady warned me

was quite strong, and

she wasn’t kidding.

I took a mouthful then

I handed it back to

the dad who passed

it to one of the kids

About 9 or 10

years old

who took a big swig

that put mine to shame.

then they had a healthy

laugh. And we had to

go, the tour lady had a

schedule to keep, and

so did I, and that was

my downfall, and probably

hers too.

–fb

Behold the Saint

After surveying several

“gentlemens’ clubs”

and not seeing anyone

who got my endorphins

jumping like happy

dolphins, a baby-faced

black girl with Betty Boop

lashes, long blonde locks,

and a curvy body wrapped

in sheer white embossed

with little hearts, sat beside

me and asked my name.

I told her the truth, that it

didn’t matter, since I was

neither rich nor famous.

And I added that she looked

good in white and would

look good on white too. A

line I’ve used before but

made up myself. She was

just my type, which is to

say I wasn’t her’s. Another

black beauty pulled up,

who I knew to be hip,

so I shared with her

an article about one

of Phizer”s ex chief

scientists and VPs

proclaiming that

our governments

and big boy “vaxxers”

are lying to us in order

quite possibly cull

Us. Now I”m

no doctor, but when they

supress the voices

of people like this,

that tells me something.

Anyway, the hip one

started to read the

article aloud and

knodded along,

then the other one,

Ms. SUPERSWEET,

asked me if I believe

all “that stuff.” And I could

tell by the way she said

it that she didn’t. It hit me

then that I was jeopardizing

my dances with her. Well,

I told her that I have no way

Of knowing for sure

but that the big boys

pushing the injections

are on record as promoting

population control, and that

it’s wise to consider dissenting

voices. I may have also

mentioned the Georgia

Guidestones…and that

was pretty much that,

since she was a nurse

as it turned out. Well, I

knew that with each word I

was pushing her farther away

but said those words anyway.

I’d rather drive home

unsatisfied than have

the consequences of

not speaking

on my conscience.

So maybe that supervising

nurse who called me St.

Francis all those years ago

when I was an STNA wasn’t

so wrong. after all.

—fb, author of Mail Order Annie, a Story of Passion and Compassion

Tough Bumpers

You’d see so many

when the living

was smooth: bumper

stickers like “Don’t Tread

on Me” and “Live Free

or Die.” Well, I don’t see

many of those anymore

now that the controllers

are talking tough. And

so it goes, the many never

are who they claim to be,

and the few are getting

fewer all the time.

–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

Too Beautiful

Heard a recording of Segovia

playing Schumann’s “First Loss”

today. It threw me back into

the vortex of my first love.

Segovia was 86 when he

recorded it.

I hope I’m

86… or…..

better yet:

dead…

before

I hear

that

song

again.

Buy my book:

BUY MY BOOK: https://www.amazon.com/Mail-Order-Annie-Story-Passion-Compassion-ebook/dp/B01MYA9FSY/ref=sr_1_3?dchild=1&keywords=mail+order+annie+fyodor&qid=1621257554&sr=8-3

#segovia

#firstlove