A Glass Jar Away

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

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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

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

Fat Jeff

Jeff was the fattest

Kid at St. Mary’s

Elementary, and we

Teased him mercilessly.

We didn’t mean to be

Mean. We didn’t plan

Our taunts and jibes.

Our cruelty came as

Naturally as the rain

And lightning. It went

On for years, while Jeff

Started jogging, first

Just down his street

At night, then all the

Way to the mall and

Back. By seventh grade

He ran track, lifted

Weights, played quarter-

back, and was making it

With one sweet cheerleader,

While we, his former

Tormentors spent

Most nights with Ms.

January. Fat Jeff had

chisled himself

Into a lean, mean, sex

Machine. Of course, we

Had something to do with

His transformation. He told

Me as much years after. I’m

Not proud of my former

Cruelty, I told him, one

Day at my house as I

Showed him the riff

To “Day Tripper” on

my Korean guitar.

“Don’t worry ’bout it,”

He said, flashing a

James Dean grin. And

To tell the truth, I don’t.

Our jibes and fat jokes

Made Jeff a better man.

But I’m not too proud of

That either. Had he been

Made of softer stuff, he

Might have killed himself,

And I would have had a

Tough time with that. So

While the past was

Too cruel, the present

May be too kind. How

Many Fat Jeffs today

Lose out on Cheerleader

Booty because

Fat-shaming is uncool

These days? Today’s

Kids fail to comprehend

The meaning behind

Nature’s harsh ways.

Mother Nature is

Cruel, but beautiful

Too.

— F.B.

 

 

 

 

Lone Duck

Sad to see

so many sights,

like seeing you,

lone duck,

ambling along

the interstate.

Wish I could

whisk you to

some happier place,

but I’m stuck

here myself.

Wish I could

mind-meld 

with you

and learn why

you’re walking

alone.

Did you lose

your mate?

Or are you

hurt? Either way,

I can relate. Or

was the duck pack

you flew with

too little and

too much to take,

like this endless

stream of

inhuman

humans

buzzing fly?

I wish I

could do more

than write this

poem as you

walk alone,

head down,

along the

interstate,

as I used to do,

so many years

ago, when I

thought that

any road

might take me

somewhere

more and

yet less

human

than here.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

Fyodor wrote a highly-rated mold-shattering novel that no one reads. The readers who are left are too busy reading tripe “written” by moronic celebrities. Thanks, for nothing, morons.  Here’s the link no one will click: Mail-Order Annie

 

People Don’t Change

“People Don’t Change,”

was my mom’s reply

to my dad. With his

barrel chest, Popeye

forearms, and wannabe

Bolshevik beard, there

he was on his knees

in front of her in the

laundry room, tears

streaming down his

beard as he begged

her to take him back

because, he claimed,

“People can change.”

I was 11 and didn’t know

then whether he or she

was right. But now, after

after losing two more wives,

and the love and respect of

all of his kids, and with one

foot and a frayed pant leg in

the grave, he’s still the same

grumpy, delusional, cheap,

lying, petty, and idiotically

violent S.O.B. he’d always been.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

 

 

 

Strong Enough

I can’t stop

Thinking that

Some might

Not be

Strong enough 

Or wise enough

Or dumb enough

Or rich enough

Or lucky enough

To make it

Through.

The forces and

The fates

Can be

And often are

Too much.

I can’t stop thinking 

About Van Gogh

Pulling the trigger 

With trembling

Finger

After Love

And religion

And art had

Failed him.

Then there’s

Hemingway’s

Brain splattered

Against the wall.

And I’m haunted

By the video

Of a Factory farm pig

Shaking with terror

On a freezing

Metal floor

To a soundtrack

Of slaughter

And I can’t stop

Knowing

That a friend

I’ll never meet

Suffers near-

Constant headaches

And I can’t stop

Seeing the face

Of a dancer

Whose illness

Mystified the

Doctors until

She decided to

Sleep it off

forever.

Then I consider

Those who will

Read this, with

Their dead-end

Jobs and hope-

less loves, then

Something like

Strength rises

in me and  roots

for them

And me

And you too

To somehow

Find enough

Strength

To make it

Through.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

* See my novel Mail-Order Annie on Amazon.

.

 

 

Half a Beer Here, One or Three Dances There

Half a beer here 

A dance or two

There.

I remember when

The strip clubs

Were packed

With femininitie’s

Finest but that

Was long ago

Now even the

Average charge

Too much for

Some bump n

Love and that’s

If you can find

A place where

You can touch

What you can’t

Taste. That’s why

I find my way to

The black clubs.

While the ice

Princesses

Put you off

More or less,

The Nubian

Princess will

Take my chalk

White hands

And press them

To their round

Brown buns and

Tell me to squeeze

And smack hard

Besides, they

Don’t look like

The girls who

Broke my heart

Ten thousand

Times, but

After all, it’s

About that

cracka Cash

Even though

Mine don’t

Come with

Much cheese

So I know not

To linger too

Long there

Either….half

A beer here

One of three

Dances there

Then it’s try

And make it

To the car so

I can head on

Home to feed

The rescue cats.

And that’s pretty

Much that.

— F.B.

 

How LeBron Helps Save me Money

Word around Cleveland used to be

that LeBron was a lousy tipper or

didn’t even tip at all. Now I’m not

exactly what anyone would call

a great humanitarian, but for

many years I was a good tipper.

Better than most–even when

money was tight, as it usually

was and is. But whenever I’d

look into the careworn face of

waiter, waitress, or other service

worker, I ‘d always tip at least 25-

40%. After all, I told myself, we’re

all just slaves on this global

plantation now. Hell, I’d even

tip big at the sandwhich shop

down the street, whose spokesman

struck me as disturbing, even

before he was outed as a major

kiddie diddler. But then LeBron-

mania washed over Cleveland,

and the rest of the nation, like

10,000 tons of liquified BS.

The towering LeBron billboard,

featuring the man himself in a

messianic pose no less, stood

menacingly as an affront to the long-

cherished myth of Karmic Justice

itself. After all, if the rumors are

even half-true, could even a quantum

microscope detect the soul of a man

so tiny that it wouldn’t motivate it’s

corporeal host to leave big tips for

his own adoring fans, who wait on him

at table or bar? Of course, this criticism

is only valid assuming that the rumors of

him being a terrible tipper are true,

which I couldn’t vouch for myself,

though I have talked to a dancer

and two waitresses who personally

attested to the rumor’s validity. Well,

that was enough for me, that and

the fact that I’ve noticed most star-

athletes are jerks, whether it

be in high school or the NBA.

But getting back to how LeBron

saved me money….Like I said, I’d

gotten into the habit of tipping big

and when I was thanked I’d quip

back something like, “Hey, I’m no

LeBron, okay.” To which the counter

stiff, dancer, or waitress would retort

something like “Hey, as long as he keeps

winning us games!” or even “SO WHAT?

He gives in other ways!” as if tax-deductable

“donations” are the same as real giving–

face-to-face. Well, after getting enough

reactions like these, I really had to

wonder why I was wasting my hard-

earned cabbage on cucks and clucks.

I decided to save my money, donate

more to homeless cats, and use my

money and words to beat the crap

out of humanity instead.

 

–Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion). I won’t even bother to link it here. Go buy a LeBron bio instead, morons.

 

 

 

 

 

Real Ghosts

Forget about that cartoon

friendly ghost and forget

about that wisp-of-fog

that looked surprisingly

like Lucky, your first dog.

And forget about those

specter-detectors the

comic books tried to sell

you when you were 13.

An honest ghost-  

detective once stated

that he’d spent three

decades and tons of

money exhaustively

searching for evidence

of even one example

of ghostly activity but

could verify none.

And like the rare honest

politician, he found that

telling the truth was the

quickest way to end a

career. But there are

real ghosts. I see them

nearly everywhere now:

the library, mall, the fast-

food spot down the street.

Most would say they’re

just as flesh-substantial

as you or me, though

their clothes tend to

be frayed and ratty,

but not always. These ghosts

either mutter to themselves

or say nothing at all. Their

faces often resemble those

crumpled road maps we’d

shove in our glove compartments

back in the 80s. And like those

maps, their faces never took

them where they needed to be.

Sometimes they look hard at

those living ones who can only see

through or past them, and then these

ghosts ask themselves if anything or

anyone else is real. To tell you

the truth, I’m starting to wonder

if I’m becoming a ghost myself;

it seems like they’re the only ones

who can see me these days. Like

I’m becoming increasingly

insubstantial to the living as

the years stagger on. Even now,

as I type this, I could swear I see

my fingers pass halfway into the

keyboard. And I doubt this poem

will be felt by anyone of living blood

–or anyone who could make me

real again.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion) : Click on this.