Always under
something:
The gun,
The thumb,
The idiocy of
Institutions,
The soft sadism
Of so-called
Friends,
The hard-edged
Disrespect
Of “neighbors,”
The ugly desire
to dominate
Common to bosses
And bankers….
Always under
Something
I don’t want
To be beneath,
But never
Again to be
Under the
Soft thick
Thighs of a
Lovely woman
Who lusts over
Me,
Much less a
Rainbow leading
To a pot of gold
Big enough to
Buy my way
Out of slavery.
— FB
I read the bios
Of certain rock
Stars. I like reading
About the their
Early struggles:
Keith, Mick, and
Brian sharing a flat,
knicking change
to feed the pay-
Heaters, Tony
Iommi persisting
With guitar after
Losing the tips of
His fingers, Ozzy
Getting by with one
Shirt on their first
Euro tour. I eat
These pages up
And am happy
For them when
They finally make
It. But the pages lose
Their flavor when I
Get to the long
Drug binges, wrecked
Hotel rooms, and the
Long trail of discarded
Virgins. I don’t think
It’s jealousy. It’s just
A matter of senseless
Excess, not to mention
Those poor virgins, and
The doves and bats 0zzy
Bit the heads off of. And
Then there’s the nagging
Realization that for most
of us, the early struggles
Never end and
Will never be
read about
By anyone.
— FB
Amazing and not
In a wonderous
Way, nearly
Every store now
Asks for donations
At the cash register.
Just today, at Check
Smart, as I made a
Payment, I was
asked by a very
big girl wearing
A tiny pink hat
If I wanted to
Donate for
Breast Cancer
Awareness
Month. Being
Dead tired I
Said, “The best
Rarely blessed
Me with their
Breasts. They
Gave them to
Men who cheated
On and beat the
Crap out of them.
Again and again.
Those breasts and
Their cancers belong
To those men.” Little
Pink hat smiled and
Said, “That makes
Sense.” Then I went
To the strip club,
Dumped half a
Grocery bag of
Cat food near
There (can’t say
Where). Then I
Straggled into
the spot, where the
Freshest, best piece
There danced dance
After dance for a
Somewhat man-
Shaped
piece
Of crap.
— FB
I keep getting these
Texts telling me
That God has a plan
For my life. Never
Mind the question
As to why God has
To spam my phone
To get my attention,
Let’s stick to the whole
“Plan” part. Without
Going into detail here,
I can say, looking back
On my life, that the
Idea of an all-knowing
And loving creator
Scripting the part I’ve
Had to live is far more
Absurd than the notion
That there’s no sky daddy
at all. And I don’t
Mean absurd in a fun and
Wacky way. Unless,
You’re one of the very
Lucky ones, you know,
if you’re willing to look at
your Life honestly. What
I’m Tempted to text back is
That I have a plan for
God’s Life. And that plan
Is to force him, her, it, or
Whatever, to suffer every
Indignity and horror that
Each and every one of “his”
Sentient creations has had
To face: from living in a state
Of ulcerous stress, all the way
Up to torture, rape, and murder,
Not just the pain that humans
Have had to endure, but let’s
Work in the misery of the
Little bleeding piglets crying
Out for their mothers on the
Factory farms’ killing floors
So the duped deists can
Munch their bacon. And of
Course, so many
Other sentient horrors
Too innumetable to
Begin to list. One
Crucifixion, which didn’t
Happen as advertised,
Wasn’t enough.
— FB
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.
It was so Foolish
Being human,
Always living
In the future
Or the past,
Luxuriating in
Mind-invented
Realms because
We never fit
In the real one.
All those word-
Games called
Philosophies,
Waking up
To shrill alarms
And slaving
Away the days
Just to buy an
Hour or two
Of dreams.
It was something,
It was nothing,
It was too little,
It was too much,
Yet some of the
Transcendence
Came from stepping
Away from our own
Species to hear the
Cries of others.
There was no God
To hear them,
And perhaps
The most horrible
Thing of all was
Realizing that we
Are the closest
Beings to deities
That this universe
Has created yet.
— FB
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
He sits on that puke-
Stained stool playing
The same old songs
Ad infinitum and
The hell with you
If you don’t know
What that means
Again And again
Without mercy
For too many
And with tenderness
For too few does
He tinkle those
Ebony and Ivory
Keys he never
Changes century
After century
Even as those
Bullets whiz by
His hoary head
He just grins
And plays those
Tragic, comical,
And tragicomical
tunes
For most as they
Straggle in dust
And blood-covered
And even those
Filled with arrows
And slugs suffer his
Discordant melodies
Sometimes
One will drink enough
Rotgut to call out a tune
Like Everything’s Coming
Up Roses or I’m in the
Money, and you should
See the piano player’s
Smile then….I’ve seen
It and heard his tunes
For lifetimes now.
Sometimes he’ll play
Just a Little Tenderness
If I look bad enough
Coming back from the
Not So OK Corall, but
Mostly it’s his sick
Or melancholy stuff
That I hear on my
Way to the bar to
Drink alone as the
Gamblers sit and
Lift marked cards
From dogeared decks
Even the saloon girls
There seem to be
Getting uglier lately
So I head on over to
The Last Chance
Spot where those
Baby-faced black
Girls lie just as much
But throw those
Velvety curves
Right in my stubbly
Face
And the dj plays
Those funny ass
Raps that crack
Me up
— FB
FB
A woman’s
hand, no matter
how much
it might
resemble a
dove,
isn’t one.
Seeing it as a
dove is
something
poets and
others who
romanticize
reality do.
And while
that can
be a lovely
way of looking
at life, it’s also
a dangerous
thing too —
especially when
that “dove”
flies
into your
wallet and
uses the
leaves
it finds
there
to fortify
a nest
in an
unromantic
heart.
— Fyodor Bukowski
They closed
The last shoe
Store in town,
So there I was
At Wal-Mart
Once again,
Searching
For a pair
Of loafers,
Size 10 Wide,
And seeing
Instead, once
Again, every
Size but that
On the shelves.
But I wasn’t
Alone in this:
Two old ladies
We’re also
Scouring those
Shelves. They
Look thin and
Bedraggled as
Though life had
Given them too
Much and yet
Not enough.
Meantime, I
Smirked to
Myself at the
Loafers sized
9, 9/12, and
You guessed it,
No size 10, when
It came to men’s
Loafers, though
They had the tie-
Up kind, but who
Has time and
Energy for that,
So I grabbed a
Pair of 10 1/2
And sat down
To try them on.
All the while, out
Of the corner of
My eye, I spied
The old ladies
Still searching
The selves, until
One of them
Plopped her
Bones down
On a bench
And Stared
blankly
Ahead and softly
Muttered to
Herself “Nothing
Fits,” again and
Again. The other
Went over and
Put her arms
Around her,
And they sat
Together like
That, rocking
Back and forth
For a while as
I tried to walk a
Few steps in
The soon-to-
Be-mine loafers,
Nearly breaking
my Neck because
these 20 dollar shoes,
Fashioned by
Slave labor in
Bangladesh,
Were Fastened
Close together
By a cord I couldn’t
Snap. As I walked
To the check out
Counter I
could still hear
The one lady
Saying “Nothing
Fits,” louder
And louder,
And I knew
Enough to know
That she wasn’t
Just talking about
Shoes.
— Fyodor Bukowski
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Musings, Mutterings, and Condemnations 