Couldn’t

Had a poem in mind–

Real life with a theme,

But I just couldn’t

Type it up for you

Tonight. I’ve had too

Many at this titty bar

Tonight to type it up

For you right. I feel that

Soft music inside me,

As I drink these pale

Ales and do dance after

Dance with a baby-faced

little black dancer who

Sees me as a creepy-assed

Cracker even though I

Drive 20 miles to feed

Stray cats. You’d think

That if God was good

He’d make old guys

Love old girls, but it’s

Not like that. I’m spending

Har-earned cracka cash

On a five foot Bratz doll

Black girl who’s Betty Boop

Lashes and plushy ass make

Me feel alright for now even

Though my readers never

Buy my novel and I’m

Doomed to hell with no

Deliverance in sight.

Reality is a Blind Piano Player in a Two-Bit Tavern on Hell’s Western Frontier

He sits on that puke-

Stained stool playing

The same old songs

Ad infinitum and

The hell with you

If you don’t know

What that means

Again And again

Without mercy

For too many

And with tenderness

For too few does

He tinkle those

Ebony and Ivory

Keys he never

Changes century

After century

Even as those

Bullets whiz by

His hoary head

He just grins

And plays those

Tragic, comical,

And tragicomical

tunes

For most as they

Straggle in dust

And blood-covered

And even those

Filled with arrows

And slugs suffer his

Discordant melodies

Sometimes

One will drink enough

Rotgut to call out a tune

Like Everything’s Coming

Up Roses or I’m in the

Money, and you should

See the piano player’s

Smile then….I’ve seen

It and heard his tunes

For lifetimes now.

Sometimes he’ll play

Just a Little Tenderness

If I look bad enough

Coming back from the

Not So OK Corall, but

Mostly it’s his sick

Or melancholy stuff

That I hear on my

Way to the bar to

Drink alone as the

Gamblers sit and

Lift marked cards

From dogeared decks

Even the saloon girls

There seem to be

Getting uglier lately

So I head on over to

The Last Chance

Spot where those

Baby-faced black

Girls lie just as much

But throw those

Velvety curves

Right in my stubbly

Face

And the dj plays

Those funny ass

Raps that crack

Me up

 

— FB

 

FB

 

 

 

 

No One Wants You To Have What’s Good

There’s this strip club

where the dancers

are black and the

best of them have

doll faces and

mommy bodies

with the kind of

curves that the

African gods

only gave to

African girls

whose ancestors

sometimes chose

their kings and

queens on their

dancing and not

killing ability

and that’s real

not from a movie

anyway, whenever

I spy an exceptional

cutie there, and chat

her up for private

dances downstairs

the kind of the white

ice princesses

don’t often give

the club dj

derails my vibe

by calling that

cutie I was

just chatting up

to the main

stage instead

but I’m not

surprised by

such tactics

anymore I know

damn well that

no one in this

world really

wants me or

you for that

matter to have

what’s good

not even my

mama would

want me to have

that first class doll-

faced mommy-

body cutie no

matter how she

might make my

perennially-

depressed

and sometimes

suicidal head swim

with endorphins all

dancing like African

princesses in a land

with no need of

strip clubs Hell not

even our friends

really want

us to have what’s

good unless it

would also benefit

them of course and

that’s why no so-

called friends who

said they loved me

like a brother ever

tried to set me up

with an ex GF

worth having or

a lovely sister even

when the world

weighed down on

me like a wicked

stepmother and a

lovely female would

have made the

demons in my

death-wishing head

jump for joy like

dolphins in a coked-

upĀ  ocean….

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie (A Story of Passion and Compassion)