Beggars

I was in a small wooded area

bordering a field

As I glanced all around

Ready to dump the

Shopping bag of

Cat food

I spied a green couch

at the far end of

the field

and a ragged man rising

from it. I dumped

the bag and started

back for the car.

“Hey!” the approaching

beggar exclaimed.

I calmly entered my

car and started to

drive away, but knowing

humanity and

realizing there was

a chance that

the beggar would

stomp or spit

in the food

out of spite,

I pulled into an

abandoned lot,

popped the trunk

and dumped more

dry and then wet

cat chomps into

a bag, doubled back

and dumped that

near enough

to the field for

Hungry cats to smell.

I saunterd back

To my ride,

A .38 on my hip

feeling as good

as it gets

theses days

–Read my book on Amazon

Glitzy Brutality

Seen from a distance

this so-called civilization

of ours must look pretty

civilized indeed: those

altitudinous, mirrored

skyscrapers reaching

ever skyward in man’s

eternal effort to dry

hump the hell

out of heaven.

 

But the closer you get

to street-level

the dryer the wet

dream gets.  You’ve

seen and heard it

all before: tired

and defeated

human beings

looking more

like Chinese

street cats than

those fabled

creations

stationed half-

way between

the beasts and

angels those

medieval scribes

swore that we are.

 

Then there’s

the brutal crime

bloodying our

intention-paved

streets, crimes

most cavemen

would cringe

to commit, most

of which aren’t

televised. So what

does modernity

and technology mean?

Is each new invention

and glimmering

building another

rung on a ladder

taking us closer to

the angels; or are

we like Chinese

street cats, a species

born in domestication,

coddled and sometimes

fed for a while, then

destined to be

abandoned by our

masters to roam

hungry and broken

among the ruins

of towering

dreams?

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie. Please buy the book. I take care of a lot of cats.

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.