The Rotting Retreads

once in a while I can’t help myself

and check the old social media

to see what the old friends

and hot asian girls I’ll nevet

are up to. today I made just

that mistake. An old pal

posted a video of his new

band made up of old farts

in splashy shorts playing

and singing “Respect” by

you know who. And the

rest of the set list was

just as dusty. Far better

it would have been to

have written and played

anything original, even

if screamed or whispered

to the most basic of chords.

Yet by all appearanced the

fattened human cattle

there would disagree..

how they shook their

grey locks and sang.

And how they clutched

onto (like there will be

no tomorrow)

the pizza slices that

they got for taking

an experimental vaccine.

–fb

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How We Dream to be Seen

Heard another thinker

today bemoan the sight

of peasants in a far-

flung country gazing

at their new cell phone

screens, “even at the

dinner table.” He went

on in his keening,

philosophical tone

to expound on the

idea that an actual

reality is better than

a virtual one. Well,

all things being equal,

who can argue that

flesh and breath can

be beat by transmitted

images, words, and

sounds? But if this

thinker had to meet

and then interact

with the absurd

excuses for humanity

who have poisoned

most of my days with

their senseless presence,

he might think differently.

Those who just happen

to meet people they

resonate with and

are attracted to in

their actual lives

can easily believe

that some higher

force placed those

people in their

path for some

grand purpose

or even just to

make them happy.

But for many of us,

that’s not how it

plays out; again

and again, we

waste our days

(and sometimes

nights too) in the

presence of those

who spark only

disgust or can’t

hear our words.

So if the Fates or

Big Daddy in the

Sky keeps casting

our lives with cheap

extras and villians

instead of the

superstars we

all long to to be

loved (or at least

liked) by, then

the heck with

superficial

condemnations

of those

technologies

which show us

that there are

people out there

who can hear our

words and see us

how we dream to

be seen.

 

–By Fyodor Bokowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

Delusion Juice

Delusions

Delusions

Everywhere

So many heads

Just swimming

With them. Hey

Look, I’m friends

With a thousand

Malaysian Beauty

Queens, and they’re

All 18. And Lookie

Here, my impromptu

Poem got 9 likes, and

I wrote it on the clock

At work. The boss is

Such a jerk. And don’t

forget to Thumbs-up the

vid of my old 80s rock

band too because we

would have made it

for Sure if our singer

Hadn’t been such

A flake. Delusions

Of grandeur and

Goodness too in

The vast Buddhaverse

Of virtue-signalling

Bodhisatvas and

That blue Hindu

God and his consort

Too: Look how hip

your Views are, loving

Me so much that

You don’t think I

Should have a

Gun in a world like

This….And then

There’s the

Smarmy fool

Who discounts

Appalling realities

As “conspiracy

theories” bc he

Doesn’t know

That phrase was

Concocted by

A certain intelligence

Agency to throw us

Of the trail of Who

Did JFK. Delusions

Delusions like

Politics and

Religions whose

Perpetrators are

All in the pockets

Of the same pay-

Masters. But I know,

I know, reality is just

Too much for us to

Take down straight,

So mix our drinks

With that sweet

Delusion-juice,

Bartender,

And thank you very

Much.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

 

 

15

Andy Warhol seemed

to be onto something

when he said that in

the future we’d all be

famous for 15 minutes.

But what he couldn’t

see back then was the

internet and it’s myriad

mini-media outlets. So

here we are now, hanging

out in a chatroom, or on

someone’s social media

platform, spinning memes,

flashing pics, and revealing

our peccadilloes to the FBI

and the CIA, while some

of us are so insanely

quixotic as to still be

writing poems in this

post-poetic age. And a

a few works here and

there are just as good,

maybe even better,

than most of what

Ginsberg scratched

down on the flexible

remains of once-living

trees.  But just like

those, the lovely young

ladies who once swooned

over love sonnets are

really quite dead. Thus,

write what we might,

we can all hold our

collective breath,

stamp and rant for 15

dead centuries, for all

the Fates care, because

few or none of us is

heading anywhere big,

not even for 15 nano-

seconds. And unless

we’re Asian college

girls with kawaii to

spare, most internet

artists must share this

oblivion, yet with not

much going on in the

so-called real world,

we might as well keep

trying to move those

whom we can. So, Andy,

if you can hear, let me

say that you  would

have been closer-to-

correct to have said

that in the future,

everyone will be

famous with

about 15 fans.

 

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

Way back in psych 101

We learned about parallel

Conversation. Two kids in

A sandbox talking: Billy

Says, “My mom is pretty.”

Betty says, “I got a new

Doggie.” Billy says,”My

Mom is the prettiest mom.”

And so it goes, neither listening,

Both just talking. But even so

Just being in each other’s

Presence makes them feel

Less alone. And things are

Pretty much the same

Today on so-called social

media. But even so, I might

Just post an old picture of

my mom, who really was

very pretty.