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

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

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

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