Another morning of
trying to force this
failing body from
this warm futon
to carry on the
life struggles known
to peasantry. On
mornings like this,
I used to visualize
a woman standing
above me, a luminescent,
fair creature, an angel,
a warrior princess,
a valkyrie, holding
out her dove-white
but strong hand,
ready to clasp mine
and pull me up and
into the fray common
to those who never
won life’s lottery; but
just like the so-called
“real” women of flesh-
and-bowels, who cavort
their way through life’s
deadly pageantry, I finally
gave her up too this morning,
because she was never
really there anyway, you
see, just like the “real” ones,
a few of whom were
present, sure, for a
time, at least in body,
while the gravy was
good; but they never
stayed through the thin
gruel days. So where does
an imaginary warrior-
maiden and soul-mate
Sail after a man has finally
said goodbye?
Does she head over
to comfort the worst
of men: the braggarts,
the blockheads, the
mindless materialists,
the drug dealers, the
pimps and puppy abusers?
Are these the ones that
imaginary valkyries fly
towards to pull up from
their beds and futons to face
life’s hard realities? I wouldn’t
be surprised if that’s true;
after all, what did the so-called
real women do, most often,
with their priceless, life-giving
eyes, and thighs, and lips, and
all the rest, but gift them to the
most worthless and least grateful
of men? Therefore, following more
than half-a-century of scribbling
love notes and poetry and even
sometimes song mixed
with sincerity of longing, and not
looking half-bad at all, according
to more than a few, I finally gave
up on those real women of lovely
flesh but thin blood; and this
morning, I even said my final
Farewell to my angel of light, my
valkyrie, my princess of the
mind. This may be poetry, or it
may be self-pity; but it
also happens to be the undiluted,
undeluded reality of my life, and
the lives of many others too. So fly
away fly on, and keep flying, my
valkyrie, because you
were never really there above my
bed. Spread those wings
And soar into some gods-
forsaken eternity, and
I’ll stay under these covers just a
little while more.
–Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie