There was once an old Buddhist monk.
One day he wrote himself a letter:
“You have done a wonderful job in
this life. Tbe Pure Land (paradise)
awaits. Love, Budda”
This inspired me to request an email
I asked her to pls send word expressing
her undying love for me. Either that or
an email deriding me for being a repulsive
pervert. I asked her to surprise me with the
truth. Her usual charge for a vid is 20 to 30.
Let’s see what she says.
— fb
Since my last skunk poem blew up the net
I thought I’d hit you with another true tale
concerning our brother or sister, the skunk.
I was driving along as I often am
Just trying to get back to the mattress
when a minor flurry of motion
caused me to pull over and curse.
In a small grassy area between streets
was a large skunk shaking its head
but I couldn’t quite make out a face
because the head was stuck in a
glass jar. The pathos of the sight
sent waves of nausea from my
gut to my mind. Speeding cars
whizzed by on either side:
creatures on their way to
ball games, churches, grocery
stores, illicit trysts, and family
gatherings. I approached the
skunk and saw that he’d never
get that jar off his head by
himself. I also saw the long claws
attached to his front paws.
I had to help, but I didn’t want to
end up in a death camp called a
hospital, so I strained my brain
a minute, ran to the car, pulled out
the work gloves and a crutch.
I lightly placed the padded end
of the crutch over the front paws
then pulled the jar with both hands.
It came off. The skunk lifted his snout
in the grey air and took some
breaths. He looked okay. I brought some
cat food from the car and placed it
it near him. He sat there
on the grass and looked at it.
I hopped in the car and headed back
to the mattress. At home I kept thinking
about him. I called a rehabber who said I
should have syringe fed him honey just
in case. I was too tired and soul sick to move.
The next day I drove back to the
scene. The skunk was gone along with
most of the food. The old mattress felt a
little better after that.
— Fyodor Bukowski
It was a homeless cat feeding day
I was driving down towards the
mostly heartless city early,
less chance of getting yelled at
or ticketed that way
I passed a skunk by the side
of the road. I figured he was
already frolicking at the Rainbow
Bridge, and I had to get to the cats
so I kept driving. After putting food
out at five locations, on my way back
I saw the skunk again and pulled over
just in case he was still with us here
on this mostly heartless Earth.
His head was upright. No blood and
he seemed intact. I cursed our maker
for doing this to the skunk and for
doing this to me again. I decided that
he needed help more than I needed to
maintain my present smell, so I pulled
work gloves and a paper shopping bag
from the back seat. I put him (or her)
in the bag. A cop pulled over and
asked me if I needed help. Then I cursed
the worthless inhuman trash that
hit the skunk and all of those that drove by.
The officer smiled and called me by name
though I never gave him my name.
He suggested I call a local wildlife center.
He even gave me the number. I explained
the skunk’s plight to the lady there, and I offered
to pay. She had to ask someone else if they
could be of help, and then she came back on
and gave me another number. Long story short,
I called number after number: wildlife rehabbers,
animal emergency clinics, etc. One voice after another
told me to call this other number. One voice told me
that it would be illegal for me to try and keep the skunk
in my county. I told him that I live in my
own country and that his county could go________.
Finally, I left a voice message to a lady
who I was assured would help. I put the
skunk in the trunk and drove to the pet store.
They didn’t have any skunk food, and after I
watched a few online videos and learned that
I should syringe feed him some honey and other
stuff, no one at the pet store would help. The
ugly young lady manager there explained that
skunks are considered “nuisance animals.”
As I fed him in the carrier in my back seat,
a bee attacked, and I cursed God once again.
The skunk ate a little honey I bought at the
supermarket and some chicken broth too.
It seemed that a back leg or both were broken
Those front legs were swinging those long claws at me
but I couldn’t blame him. I hid the carrier with him in it
under my porch. The skunk rehabber messaged back and
told me to put a blanket over him and to swirl an egg in some water.
She also said that she was going to a family function and that
she would call me back in a few hours at which time I
could head over to her place with the skunk.
I looked at the comments at her rehabbing location.
One stated that she never called the commenter back.
I didn’t have any eggs. I collapsed on the mini mattress
in my room because I was exhausted and it was getting late.
A few hours went by with no call back, so I got in the car
and headed out to her locale with the skunk. He was
starting to shake. I fed him again. His face reminded me of
the face of a dearly departed cat who passed only days before.
We drove and drove. After nearly two hours we arrived at a
semi-rural destination.
A car with windows rolled down sat in the drive. I knocked
on the screen door. The wooden door behind it was open.
A dog with a healed hole in his forehead ran along the fence
bordering the driveway. I went back to the car. Under the
garbage bag and shirt I put over him, the skunk
was shaking worse than before. I tried calling and texting
the skunk rebber lady.
Finally, I found her Facebook page and left an emergency
message. I pulled the carrier out of the car and tried feeding
the skunk again. Then the lady appeared from out of her front door.
I had envisioned her as a sweet old Aunt Bee, but she was an
ordinary-looking middle-aged lady with a crazed look on her
face. I realized that I’d been moving very slowly, so
I explained to her in my meekest voice that I wasn’t drunk
(I wasn’t), just very tired
because I’d been up since 5:00 am.
She started in on me. “THAT’S my life EVERY DAY.
I TOLD YOU THAT I WOULD CALL!” I explained
that because it was such a long drive and the skunk
was shaking, I thought I should get a head start
driving. She continued to harangue me. Then she
explained that she’d been at a family function to
celebrate the memory of her dearly departed son
who had died one year ago that day. I expressed
my regrets, but she hadn’t mentioned that on the
phone, and the skunk was shaking. And there was
literally no one else. There on her lawn, in front of
the shaking skunk in the carrier, as I stared into her grief
and anger crazed face, as she continued to dress me down
and inform me that she had already cared for 129 forlorn
skunks this year alone while she help down her job,
I realized that she was a Saint driven nearly mad because
most people were heartless and wouldn’t help skunks, so
the burdens all fell upon her. I remembered my dearly departed
cat and continued to wonder if I could have done things differently
and saved him.
I realized that I did not feel the presence of God
I started shaking and crying aloud, and no manly efforts
on my part could stop my tears. I blubbered that I was sorry
but that there was no one else. She softened when I told her
about my cat and handed me a form to fill out. There was a
blank for donation. I asked her how much. She said, “Whatever
you want” then “Don’t worry about that.” I gave her 5 twenties and
said through my tears that she deserved much more. And of
course she did. She said that was generous of me and picked
up the skunk in her blanket just like he was a baby. I thanked God
for the lady.
She said she would call me. I said that I would adopt the skunk if
he makes it. She said she would call. She never called.
–Fyodor Bukowski
Skinny and grey
he leapt into my trailer
then looked around nervously.
I popped a can of cat food
and he chomped away as his
eyes darted around at the
mysterious and dark
surroundings.
I already had cats
so I put him back outside.
About a week later he
appeared at the back door
looking even skinnier and
greyer in the harsh light.
This time I put him in the car
and drove him to the vet.
The vet showed me that
the he was covered with
caked fecal matter and fleas,
and we could both see that his eyes
were oozing yellow goo.
He put the anti-flea solution on him,
gave me some antibiotics,
cat shampoo,
and vitamins for him.
The cat was very old
and had missing teeth.
When I got him home
I told him he could stay.
I would be his
retirement plan.
I figured I could do better
for him than nature had.
I gave him a bath and
kept him in the bedroom
where he rested his tired bones
in a premium cat bed and
ate voraciously. He’d had it
rough outside, so I even
got him a bubbling cat fountain
and a glow-in-the-dark collar
with his new name and info.
engraved on a heart-shaped tag.
As I rested on my futon,
he lay on my chest and looked
at me. When I turned on my
stomach, he jumped on my back and slept.
And when I turned on my side
he managed to balance there,
his head held up proudly
like the Sphinx.
Then the diarrhea came
and came.
No big deal.
I cleaned it up.
He was more than worth
the effort.
He’d been neutered
before he came to me,
so I guessed that he’d been
someone’s cat but then
abandoned.
People are beasts.
Sometimes he made it to
the litter pan.
He did his best.
The vet advised trying
boiled chicken and rice
for a while to settle his stomach,
so I cooked
for the first time in many years.
Then, about a month after I
adopted him, he stopped
eating altogether, wouldn’t
touch the chicken or the
different brands of cat food.
He couldn’t
even get up. The vet said
he was moribund and had
reached the end.
I didn’t want him to suffer
or die
alone when I was at work,
so I stayed with him as the vet
prepared the needle that
would help him pass. I told
Francis that his soul could
follow me home or go ahead
to that painless place
where I would be with him
again someday.
Afterwards I stayed in the
exam room with him for a
while. Then I took his collar
and put it in my pocket.
You are my boy, Francis,
and I was lucky to have you.
I will follow you home
someday.
— Fyodor Bukowski
Some want that Ninja life
crouched down over the
gas tank, zooming and buzzing
up and down life’s roads.
I’d rather lean back low
behind the gleaming
high handlebars of an
American chopper.
Think Peter Fonda
in Easy Rider.
Riding Easy
Taking it slow
It’s the way a man
travels when he knows
that there’s really
nowhere
to
go.
— Fyodor Bukowski
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:
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.
I sometimes chance upon a
video so ludicrous that it makes
me smile. Once involves a certain
Hollywood actor famous for playing
a pirate based on the mannerisms of
Keith Richards. I don’t watch films, but
that’s all well and good. I understand
his character brings great joy to young
and old. But to see him barely playing
guitar while costumed like a reject from
a Guns n Roses cover band and sharing
the stage with Jeff Beck no less is a
bit much, especially for a guy like me who takes
shots of Pepto-Bismol to get through
tbe day. Keith Richards
gave everything he had to his music
and that’s why he’s still legit up there
while guys like Johnny just don’t deserve
that stage. Is Jeff Beck so starved for
attention? Does he think he might get
Sloppy seconds on some of Johnny’s
teenaged fans? I smile as I think of all
the starving and talented guitarists out there
Who could be saved by playing with Jeff.
Then I find that Johnny’s talents extend
to the world of painting and who knows
what else. It’s gratifying to know that
That his paintings sell while Van Gogh
died unrecognized. Of course, the moronic
Will attribute all this to envy and hate,
But I don’t begrudge the man his acting
Accolades or his wealth. In fact,
I googled “Johnny Depp animal rights” in
The hopes of finding some nugget about
Wonderful things he’s done for animals,
But what came up was an allegation
From his ex that he dangled their dog
Out a car window and threatened to put
It in a microwave. Hollywood Vampire
And cartoony Keith Richards knock off
Pirate, man of myriad talents and owner of
one
Hell of a greasy self satisfied smirk, I
Salute you, American hero, Johnny Depp.
— Fyodor Bukowski
I was teaching guitar lessons
at a mom and pop music shop
when Jack and his pop came in.
He wanted to play classic rock,
which was what I was weaned on,
so I got him into Wolf Marshall’s
Basics 1 book and before too long
he was playing “Sympathy for the
Devil” and “Jumping Jack Flash,”
etc. though he seemed a bit slow
in some ways and clearly preferred
playing Dungeons and Dragons with
a collection of nerds on the net to
practicing his minor pentatonic scales.
All in all, he was an ok kid, though his
progress was glacial, I liked his musical
taste because he smiled when I
demonstrated this or that piece or let
loose with some licks. One day he came
in ranting about what someone had said
about something Bill Gates had said, and
Though I soon steered his attention to
musical matters at hand, it struck me as
Strange that he should defend old Gates
with such vehemence, but I chalked it up
to honor among nerds. Well, it was the
year of COVID, and before long Jack
developed a nasty habit of sneezing in
that tiny lesson room, which in itself was
ok, except for the fact that he never
Covered his mouth and one sneeze hit me
across the face like a splash. I presented
him with one of the clear face shields the
owner of the place handed out, but Jack
always managed to take it off in the
middle of the lesson, sneeze up the place,
then saunter into the lesson room the very
next week like nothing had happened.
Long story short, I ended up calling
his mom and explained the matter in
a message. With much finesse, I said
that he was a great kid but might be
allergic to the cat hair on my clothes, etc.
and suggested he try one of the other
teachers. And while it wasn’t a “gas gas
gas” to have to fire him like that, at least
I’m one nerd less likely now to get another
splash of spit across my face.
— fyodor bukowski
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.
there is pain so great
it cant be written
or sung
there are poems
that should never
grow tongues
great pain when fresh
writes no poems
it knows only
contorted faces
acid tears
ugly howls
and silence.
i would have
Made myself
Silent and
softened these
features forever
Were it not for
Those innocent eyes
which accomplished
what religions
and women
failed to do
because if i open
that drawer
and end this pain
with one pull
what would they do
but starve
and go mad
with questions
not to be answered?
their innocent wide
Moist eyes
like little worlds
exerting gravitational pull
enough
to keep me
bound to this
howling rock
for God knows
how long
Musings, Mutterings, and Condemnations 