How Terrible it is to See You

whizzing by, millimeters from my car,

on my way to work, threatening those

who depend on my life, to shave seconds

off your morning commute. 

How terrible it is to see you

smiling Hello in the office we share

though you refuse to lock the door

when you leave, our computers and 

other items exposed to those who roam

the halls.

How terrible it is to see you

approaching, your sign or hand out

as though I owe you, as though karma is

real, as though you wouldn’t kill me for a

quarter if you could.

How terrible it is to see you with

your idiotic broom and dustpan hovering

over the lot as I wait for you to scoop up

the last burnt french fry so I can

run behind the dumpsters to feed the

starving homeless cats.

How terrible it is to see your ugly, cruel,

ridiculous, misshapen faces inhabiting

the god forsaken spaces where I must

suffer this life, my only life.

— Fyodor Bukowski

Afraid of the Sun

We’re afraid of everyone–
Afraid of the sun  — John Lennon

 

I’m amazed at how consistent

people are with their love

for the sun and so-called

“wonderfully-sunny weather.”

It may be the Mozart-playing

vampire in my genetic woodpile,

but my gut aches with dread to see

a bright red sun in the sky. It makes

me squint hard like Clint Eastwood

in a bloodsoaked spaghetti western

unrelieved by love or sentimentality.

Yet the sun is guilty of far more

heinous crimes, like bringing out

the burglars, rapists, and obnoxiously

loud neighbors. Nietzsche wrote that

mankind is a diseaes on the skin of the

Earth, and more than 50 years on this

whirling ball of dirt has taught me the

worth of those words. So the next time

you’re basking in your love of that

flaming ball of cancer above,

remember the droughts and the

life-destroying crimes going down

on a brightly-lit boulevard near

you.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

the best thing

the best thing

is lying on a bed

made of old couch

cushions laid out

on the floor

my arm around

the now obese,

one-eyed cat,

who once survived

off garbage left

in and around

the dumpsters

by my not-

so-mobile

home.

the best thing

is falling asleep

to the sound of

purring,

as out there

man-shaped

maggots grin,

slap each other

on the backs,

fight over

parking spots,

and cheer for

the fools

whom they pay

millions

to play with

balls.

the best thing

is slipping

into sweet,

sublime

unconsciousness,

as the latest crop

of Romeos seek

for fresh Juliets,

but end by bedding

down with the

coughing corpses

of diseased,

bloated

whores.

my boarded-up

windows mock

them all, as the

cruel, mad sun

performs her daily,

obscene dance,

as the old money turns

and the new world burns,

my smile gently spreads

across this pillow,

this park,

this universe.

 

–Fyodor Bukowski

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