i was writing an epic poem
in ottava rima and was told
by a few of discerning taste
and acerbic tongue that
it was funny, and witty, and
original, but after a day
followed by many others days
of
crushing labor and a neighbor’s
barking dog and a hard on with
nowhere special to go it’s all I
can do to write like this:
a desperate poem
from a desperate man
to other desperate souls:
when the brain bleeds
the pen screeds.
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.
There have been signs
As of late, impossible
Situations, intractable
Problems, strange bumps
On the skin, headaches
That take days to die,
and the Shudder that sizzles
Up the spine whenever
It slugs me that my best
Days have run away
Like slaves only to
Be brought down
By the laughing
Dogs of time.
So many signs,
Like the song
That sings
I’ll never
Feel the love of
A lovely woman
Again. Signs screaming
My name in the dead
Of day as the
Sun crucifies me
Yet again. Signs
Tapping signals
Into my brain,
Telling me that
If I have anything
Left to say I should
Say it soon, and that
If there’s anything
Left to slay I should
Slay it soon, and
That if I have any
sacrifices left
To make, I should
Make them soon,
Soon,
Soon,
Soon
— FB
So much of life
for many
boils down to
mostly pain-
management.
I remember
grandma, who’d
escaped commies
during WW2, but
just barely, and
with my five-year-
old, starving future
father in tow. After
that she smiled and
drank her way
through the
decades; but
then one night,
when she didn’t
know I was still
awake, I saw her
shaking on the
couch, her face
contorted into
one I couldn’t
recognize.
Later I found out
it was bone
cancer. Then I heard
her yelling at my father
because he’d been
praying to keep her
alive.
The other day a
pain like a switchblade
struck the back of my
knee and kept striking
for several days and nights–
right past the pain meds.
At first I could hardly believe
it when I heard the doctor
say it was just a sprain, but
then he added it was
pinching a nerve that was
setting off others.
And then there was
Larry, my fat, furry cat
and adopted son, whose
tumor grew back after a
costly operation; and the
cries and moans he made
finished off what was left
of my heart. Well, if you’re
reading this, you’re alive,
and you already know
(or soon will) that
much of life is pain.
And that pain is often
too much, despite those
who say that the “Good
Lord, never gives us
pain that we can’t bear”
and those who maintain
that pain teaches us
lessons we wouldn’t
otherwise hear.
Now, I find that an
internet friend, a lovely
soul, suffers constant
headaches, and I wish
that I could cure those,
don’t you know, and I
do have hope for her;
but when it comes to
pain in gneral, I’m
haunted by the words
of a buddhist monk,
who said that if the
Buddha could have
eliminated suffering
once and for all,
he would have.
Wouldn’t you?
— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie
The consequences of not winning
the lottery can be severe. There are
as many kinds of lotteries as there
are people, heavens or hells: the Good-
Looks lottery, the Silver Spoon Lottery,
and who could forget The-Being-in-the-
Right-Time-and-Place Lottery.
A player can win or lose as many
lotteries as that fickle wheel of Fortune
dictates. Some win them all; some none.
While some win some: take Lord Byron
for example: he won all three of those
mentioned already, but he lost The-4-
Sound-and-Healthy-Limbs Lottery…
by one. And then there other cases:
say, for example, the lame and ugly
sonneteer haunting the 21st Century
bus stop at the corner of Bad Genes
Street and Terrible Timing Avenue.
Needless to say, the consequences of
losing all three of the aforementioned
lotteries are dire indeed, while the player
who wins even one might have a
chance. Good looks, riches, or even
just four sound and healthy limbs,
with a little luck, could lead a player
to the promised land. But even one
mistep could bring the winner of just
one lottery down, causing that player
to slip into one of the many hells
that lie languidly yawning
for players like you
and me.
— Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion)
How can cowboy hats
look so good in the old
Westerns, when they look
so dumb in real life these
days?
Saw this guy striding
across the lot today, a
pristine snow-white
cowboy hat squatting atop
his bovine head. Could
hardly keep my soy burger
in.
Sad truth is we just can’t
transcend this sad unromantic
reality the big bad director
in the sky has miscast us in–
not by wearing some too-clean,
well-kept “cowboy” hat that no
desperado would ever be caught
dead-or-alive in.
Musings, Mutterings, and Condemnations 