The Only One

When they taught us that

Evil entered the scene

Because Eve ate an apple

I told the other kids

the nuns were lying

I was the only one

at that school anyway

And when the other punks

were playing in cover bands

I said that a cover band

is just a cheap jukebox with

flesh and even a crappy

Real band is better than

a good clone group

any day

And I was the only one to

start an original band

on my bloc

And when the tards

blasted their

brainless bass beats

day after day

through everyone’s walls

and skulls, I was the

only old timer

to to put a stop to that

on my street

And when the lot owner

sent his goon to

tell us who were

feeding the strays to stay

away, I was the only one

to laugh in his face and

keep returning to put food

out in places near enough

for the strays to smell.

And when they silence

those who tell the truth, I share

their words at drive-throughs

and I’m not the only one

but it seems like it

most days

–Fyodor Bukowski

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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

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

Opossum in the Road

I have this walking nightmare

that sometimes comes true:

the nightmare is that I see a

wounded animal in the road and

there’s not much I can do about it.

One night when practically

nothing was going according to

plan, the Big Prick in the

sky decided to make things even

worse: I’m driving along and see

an opossum in the middle of the

road, half-upright, and staring

straight ahead. So I pull over,

get out of the car and defying

the inexorable flow of idiotic

traffic, walk up to him or her,

and notice that the legs are

crushed and there’s blood around

the mouth. It was likely the usual

case: some sports fan must have

hit him and just drove off to his

ball game, Wal-Mart, or fat wife.

I call the police, explain, and

ask for an officer to come and

put the opossum out of his misery.

The dispatcher, sounding bored,

says she’ll send someone. Fifteen

or so long minutes later, I call

back. The officers are busy with

“more important matters.” I say if

those cops were real men, they

wouldn’t tolerate a system that

keeps releasing criminals so they

have to catch and arrest them

all over again. Then with an eye-

rolling voice, she addresses me by

name and says they’re on their

way. By then I’m cursing myself for

not having a shovel with me, so I

drive home, grab one, double back,

and see the opossum’s head down–

no life in the eyes. I use the shovel

to move him or her under a

nearby tree. When the officer

arrives, he’s tired, but polite. I ask

him to shoot the poor creature,

just to make sure he’s not

suffering; but the officer assures

me he’s dead, though he doesn’t

seem to give a damn any more

than the endless steam of

motorists, driving by, towards

their own inglorious deaths.

 

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

 

 

 

 

Those Lives with Great Plot-Lines

We love following

and reading about

those famous people

whose lives make

for great plot-lines: the

young writer whose father

throws his first manuscripts

out onto the front lawn, who

then starves in the streets,

only to eventually be discovered

and bring poetry back

to the many;  The gangley, gap-toothed

guitarist who cops a few chords and

early rock riffs then nearly freezes

in squalor with his “mates,”

who go on to rock the balloon-filled

stadiums of the world, marry supermodels,

and grow gold as country gentlemen,

because they were good AND they hit the scene

at just the right time and place.

We especially love those rags-to-riches plots,

played-out in real life; but don’t forget that

for every one of those, there are millions of lives

marked by early struggle, sparkles or even

bonfires of promise, which only go on

to get snuffed by bad weather, hit up against too

much resistance, and so they never get

the applesauce applause, much less the country

castles. And don’t make the mistake of thinking,

that all of those were somehow less

than the the great and lucky ones;

too often the forces fail

to congeal in such a way

as to make peoples’ lives

the stuff of great

plot-lines.

 

–by Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion) Click here: MAIL-ORDER ANNIE

 

 

 

A Good Way to Die

My favorite death scene

is when “The Motorcycle Boy”

in RUMBLEFISH breaks into

the pet store at night to free

these fighting fish. While he’s

doing it, he mutters something

about the fish, how they won’t

need to fight, if they just can

make it to the river. Now the

motorcycle boy, played by

Mickey Rourke, knows that

the pet store is guarded by

this hard ass cop who’s had

it out for him for him for a

good long time, so when the

“boy” is gunned down in the

street with that fish tank in

his arms, we get the idea

that he was ready for end

and even wanted it to go

that way.

Now I’ve been thinking

of another good way to

make a final exit, say

there’s this guy who feeds

stray cats and he’s really

pissed because the only

others who seem to care

are mostly older ladies

whose maternal urges have

been displaced onto hapless cats.

Now say this guy is mad about

more than just how society

regards cats, so when he goes

to feed them, or change the straw

in the makeshift shelter he’s built,

he’s strapped with a .38 on his side.

And say that one day (or night)

he feels that his light is spent, so

he really takes his time

pouring out the dry food and

laying the wet food over it, then

arranging the straw in the shelter

just right, until finally, some cow-faced

fool comes hoofing out of his castle of

commerce or over-mowed  back yard

and yells something like, “Hey, quit feeding

those cats!” So then our cat-guy pulls his

revolver, aims it, and blows a big hole out

the back of cow face’s fat head.

Then our hero waits for the cops to

arrive, while his hands are shaking,

because this isn’t some movie directed

by Francis Ford Coppola, and he’s just

not as cool as The Motorcycle Boy, and

he knows what comes next; but still he

has no regrets. He’s even relieved, feels

he’s chosen his end well, even if only a

few can see it that way.

 

by Fyodor Bukowski

Check out his novel MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion).

 

You Never Knew Me

Has is happened to you?

One of your”friends” or

someone who’s family

says something

which makes you realize

that even after

all the words and happenings

you’ve survived together,

this friend or

family member

never knew you–

not really–

not even a little

It’s an illuminating

moment for sure

but what it reveals

is just one

of those things

you never

really wanted

to see

 

–Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion) on Amazon and Kindle