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

Day After My Birthday

I don’t tell people

I know that my

Birthday is coming.

I don’t tell them

On my birthday

Either. I don’t want

Those few that I know

and care about to spend

Their money, because

They haven’t got much.

But being human, there’s

Always that penlight-sized

Spotlight of hope searching

The dark cave of my life

For something or someone,

Especially on a birthday,

That man-made boundary

In time that intensifies

Our hope for happiness

Or meaning. So I stopped

Down to a strip-spot I used

To visit, after the insane

Job, and after putting in

My earplugs to deaden the

Rap crap and hell metal, I

Spied a baby-faced, black-

Haired angel shaking her

Birthday-big white ass on

The stage. She looked me

Dead in the eyes with a look

That seemed to say that I

Was more than just my

Money. And despite all

The hard-lived lessons of

The past half century,

I began to half-believe,

Because I’m even dumber

On my birthday. So I stuck

A few bucks in her hard-

Pressed garter and said

That I enjoyed her acting

In Twilight 3. At least I

Don’t steal my lines from

Movies. And when her dance

Was done, she sat that birthday-

Sized sweet ass of hers down

Next to me. That and her face

Lit a few candles in my soul

Really. I told her that she looked

Like Lord Byron’s great great great

Etc. granddaughter, and when

That didn’t click, I said descendent

Of Elvis, which worked up a smile

On that cherubic face. Well, she

Shared a few things, like her

Studying to be a yoga instructor,

And I tipped her a five every

Several minutes, but she still

Hit me up for dances pretty

Quick, which I politely declined,

Saying I was enjoying my play-

Date and her luminous beauty

Too much to want to spoil it in

Some dark booth. And then

The light in her eyes dimmed

And her smile clicked off. She

Made an excuse about having

To talk to the “house mom.”

A few minutes later I saw her

And that luminous ass pressed

Against some other half-dead

Fool at the bar, who was

Smiling like it was his damned

Birthday in a universe that

Remembers.

 

— FB

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No One Wants You To Have What’s Good

There’s this strip club

where the dancers

are black and the

best of them have

doll faces and

mommy bodies

with the kind of

curves that the

African gods

only gave to

African girls

whose ancestors

sometimes chose

their kings and

queens on their

dancing and not

killing ability

and that’s real

not from a movie

anyway, whenever

I spy an exceptional

cutie there, and chat

her up for private

dances downstairs

the kind of the white

ice princesses

don’t often give

the club dj

derails my vibe

by calling that

cutie I was

just chatting up

to the main

stage instead

but I’m not

surprised by

such tactics

anymore I know

damn well that

no one in this

world really

wants me or

you for that

matter to have

what’s good

not even my

mama would

want me to have

that first class doll-

faced mommy-

body cutie no

matter how she

might make my

perennially-

depressed

and sometimes

suicidal head swim

with endorphins all

dancing like African

princesses in a land

with no need of

strip clubs Hell not

even our friends

really want

us to have what’s

good unless it

would also benefit

them of course and

that’s why no so-

called friends who

said they loved me

like a brother ever

tried to set me up

with an ex GF

worth having or

a lovely sister even

when the world

weighed down on

me like a wicked

stepmother and a

lovely female would

have made the

demons in my

death-wishing head

jump for joy like

dolphins in a coked-

upĀ  ocean….

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie (A Story of Passion and Compassion)