What Happened to Who I Used to be?

What happened to that me

Who picked up old receipts

Off the road half-expecting

To see messages from God

Written on them

Or that me who rode my mini-bike

Past the lovely girl’s house

Dozens of times a day

Half expecting to see her

Walk down that long driveway

To wave me into her life

Or that me who got into that old

Nash Rambler with my half-psycho

Father every Sunday to suffer his

Lies and cigarette smoke and farts?

What happened to that me who prayed

for a UFO to land in my backyard to

take me to a planet full of honest

full-time fathers, a God who spoke

directly to all who called,

and a lovely girl with my name

In her heart?

— Fyodor Bukowski

Read my novel on Amazon.

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

Every One

Sitting at the club

looking at some

so so honeys

wondering how many

will be going home

to and giving their

money to drug dealers

who torture kittens

or beat up strippers

who love them.

then the buddha on

my other shoulder

tells me that maybe

im just spitting sour

grape seeds again. But no

im no young man now

and this shot of reality doesn’t

bother me (except the part

about the kittens) like it used

to. I get up to leave but

before I do, I tip the

door boy, smile, and ask

just how many

of these ladies

go home to drug

dealers. Not expecting

a reply, I head for

the door, but before

I do, he looks me dead

in the eye and without

a smile says, “Every

single one

of them.” Then

the buddha

on my shoulder

smiles and

I do too.

Please buy my book “Mail-Order Annie: a Story of Passion and Compassion.” On Kindle and Amazon