Those Lives with Great Plot-Lines

We love following

and reading about

those famous people

whose lives make

for great plot-lines: the

young writer whose father

throws his first manuscripts

out onto the front lawn, who

then starves in the streets,

only to eventually be discovered

and bring poetry back

to the many;  The gangley, gap-toothed

guitarist who cops a few chords and

early rock riffs then nearly freezes

in squalor with his “mates,”

who go on to rock the balloon-filled

stadiums of the world, marry supermodels,

and grow gold as country gentlemen,

because they were good AND they hit the scene

at just the right time and place.

We especially love those rags-to-riches plots,

played-out in real life; but don’t forget that

for every one of those, there are millions of lives

marked by early struggle, sparkles or even

bonfires of promise, which only go on

to get snuffed by bad weather, hit up against too

much resistance, and so they never get

the applesauce applause, much less the country

castles. And don’t make the mistake of thinking,

that all of those were somehow less

than the the great and lucky ones;

too often the forces fail

to congeal in such a way

as to make peoples’ lives

the stuff of great

plot-lines.

 

–by Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion) Click here: MAIL-ORDER ANNIE

 

 

 

A Good Way to Die

My favorite death scene

is when “The Motorcycle Boy”

in RUMBLEFISH breaks into

the pet store at night to free

these fighting fish. While he’s

doing it, he mutters something

about the fish, how they won’t

need to fight, if they just can

make it to the river. Now the

motorcycle boy, played by

Mickey Rourke, knows that

the pet store is guarded by

this hard ass cop who’s had

it out for him for him for a

good long time, so when the

“boy” is gunned down in the

street with that fish tank in

his arms, we get the idea

that he was ready for end

and even wanted it to go

that way.

Now I’ve been thinking

of another good way to

make a final exit, say

there’s this guy who feeds

stray cats and he’s really

pissed because the only

others who seem to care

are mostly older ladies

whose maternal urges have

been displaced onto hapless cats.

Now say this guy is mad about

more than just how society

regards cats, so when he goes

to feed them, or change the straw

in the makeshift shelter he’s built,

he’s strapped with a .38 on his side.

And say that one day (or night)

he feels that his light is spent, so

he really takes his time

pouring out the dry food and

laying the wet food over it, then

arranging the straw in the shelter

just right, until finally, some cow-faced

fool comes hoofing out of his castle of

commerce or over-mowed  back yard

and yells something like, “Hey, quit feeding

those cats!” So then our cat-guy pulls his

revolver, aims it, and blows a big hole out

the back of cow face’s fat head.

Then our hero waits for the cops to

arrive, while his hands are shaking,

because this isn’t some movie directed

by Francis Ford Coppola, and he’s just

not as cool as The Motorcycle Boy, and

he knows what comes next; but still he

has no regrets. He’s even relieved, feels

he’s chosen his end well, even if only a

few can see it that way.

 

by Fyodor Bukowski

Check out his novel MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion).

 

Keith Richard’s Mouse

When he was a lil Keef,

way before the Stones,

he had a little white mouse

named Gladys. He kept her

in his pocket, brought her

to school and fed her

from his lunch and dinner.

In his autobio he wrote that

“Gladys was true and trusted,”

which is more than can be said

for some so-called humans

from his or any other

life.

 

Well, his mother killed the

little mouse, and  Keith

“never forgave her for that.”

And it’s nice to know that

on some balloon-filled

stadium stage somewhere

in the world

under all that

tough-guy swagger

and bravado rolls

a pretty sweet

soul.

–by Fyodor Bukowski    Read his IndieReader-Approved novel: MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (a Story of Passion and Compassion)      *ALL proceeds go towards feeding and “fixing” homeless cats. (Proof available upon serious inquiry)

Click Here for MAIL-ORDER ANNIE

Dumb-Ass Cowboy Hat

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.

The Bottom Feeders

The stripper who

looks like a Bratz doll

is already working

on a cracka’ when

I get to the bar,

so I’m glad to be

packing pen and

writing pad when I

sit down at the

short side of the bar

and start trying to write

but the free cheap

bank pen only gives

ink in fits and starts

before blowing up

like the laughter

of bankers. So I’m

glad when the bar

girl gives me hers.

It’s good to look busy

when the bottom-

feeder dancers start

sizing up my loneliness,

because the bottom one

slides over and asks if

I’d like some company. So

I squeeze out a slight

smile and mutter “no thanks

but it’s nice of you to say

hello.” Then I feel bad

and sad to see her slink

away, because her and I

are really together in

the same circle in

Darwin’s Inferno.

But even so, pity and

empathy don’t override

natural selection, so I

keep writing what no one

wants to read while the

Brat doll keeps laughing and

flashing those long black

lashes of hers at the lonely

old cracka’ she’s still working

on.

 

 

 

 

 

Why Most Contemporary Writers Suck

There’s more than one reason why my pen name is an amalgamation of the names of a couple of dead writers. Put simply, dead writers do it better…in most cases anyway. OK, I’ll explain: in our totalitarian, viciously-contemporary anti-culture, living writers simply can’t tell the truth, not the whole sad bag-of-kittens truth anyway–not if they want to stay employed, earn enough to feed the strays, and maybe even enough to treat themselves to a lap dance now and then.

But before you go and assume that these are mere bitter words spewed out after sucking sour grapes, allow me to elaborate. Under my “real” name, I’ve won second place in two university writing contests, earned an advanced English degree, and a bunch of literary mags (print and online) have picked up my stories and poems over the years, a few of them are even deemed “prestigious” by those who like to deem things. Not exactly the best creds, but not the worst either.

So why am I complaining? It’s because I’ve learned the hard way that to tell the truth and stay employed, a writer today has to use a pen name. Blame it on “PC’ culture or the insanely-delusional and pablum-preferring masses; but whatever the ultimate causes, the effect is clear: IF you write the truth about people or yourself today, there’s a good chance that you’ll end up experiencing the plight of homeless cats first hand.

The masses of people have always been delusional, vicious, and hypocritical; but at least sometimes they allowed their writers and social critics to tell the truth, if only because subconsciously they wanted to hear the truth. In the 19th Century, Fyodor Dostoyevsky may have been put in front of a firing squad, but he was reprieved at the last minute by the Tsar. And his fellow Russians loved him in his own lifetime for revealing their collective hypocrisy, insanity, and occasional flashes of humanity.

In the 20th Century, Charles Bukowski may have been put in front of the post office employee review board for his brutally honest “underground” newspaper columns, but in the end they let him keep his slave job. And now the poetry and fiction sections of every good book store hold his many titles, to the undying horror and envy of most MFA instructor-authors, and to the credit of his fearless publisher John Martin and the free market.

Anyway, most writers today suck for the same reason that Seinfeld said that comedy is being killed by political correctness: those who tell it like it is these days are all-too-often marginalized and/or castigated. It’s an extreme expression of kill-the-messenger syndrome. After all, it’s easier to kill a messenger than to deal with the ugliness of unvarnished reality.

But I’m not killed so easily. Believe me, many have tried, in one way or another. So I think I’ll just keep telling it like it is and how I think it ought to be. And if truth can be likened to a bag of unwanted kittens that many would like to see drowned, I think I’ll just untie that bag and let those kittens run free.

Mick Jagger’s Facebook

Mick Jagger’s Facebook

 

It’s strange to see Mick

Jagger’s selfies on his

own social media account.

Since he was and still is

one of the most famous

men to ever live, you might

think he’d keep a personal

account private. But no, you too

can follow ( if not friend) the more-

than-famous frontman of

the world’s greatest rock

and roll band. You can even

peep Mick’s selfies and videos:

Mick on his motorcycle, Mick’s

exotic vacation pics, Mick playing

guitar in his bedroom and

harmonica in his living room,

complete with white couch

and oversized Royal Palace

pillow. I guess it’s proof enough

that for some precious few

life in the spotlight never

grows cold.

By Fyodor Bukowski. Read my novel. All proceeds go to homeless cats.

They Say Edgar Allan Poe Had it Bad

They say Edgar Allan Poe Had it Bad

 

And in some respects he did:

orphaned as a kid, and then let down

by his rich philistine foster dad,

and then there’s the living hell

of living with a poetic soul

in a decidedly unpoetic world.

But it’s just as true to say that

the man who lived “The Raven”

was extraordinarily blessed as well–

and probably more so than me or you:

despite what the hypocritical haters say

(because they know neither talent nor truth),

despite greedy publishers, and mediocre readers,

and his own inability to hold his drink,

Fate gifted Poe with the perfect wife:

cherubic, feminine, devoted and loving

and unlike most “enlightened” victims today,

Virginia married a great poet who Loved her

before the world could make her its whore.

And if you’re still not convinced

(because you’re a brainwashed, unnatural,

PC bore), I’ll leave you with some stanzas

she wrote to her “Eddy” (and lived to the fullest)

before Death whispered “Nevermore”:

“Ever with thee I wish to roam—

Dearest my life is thine.

Give me a cottage for my home

And a rich old cypress vine,

Removed from the world with its sin and care

And the tattling of many tongues.

Love alone shall guide when we are there—

Love shall heal my weakened lungs;

And Oh, the tranquil hours we’ll spend,

Never wishing that others may see!

Perfect ease we’ll enjoy, without thinking to lend

Ourselves to the world and its glee—

Ever peaceful and blissful we’ll be.”

VirginiaPoe

You Never Knew Me

Has is happened to you?

One of your”friends” or

someone who’s family

says something

which makes you realize

that even after

all the words and happenings

you’ve survived together,

this friend or

family member

never knew you–

not really–

not even a little

It’s an illuminating

moment for sure

but what it reveals

is just one

of those things

you never

really wanted

to see

 

–Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion) on Amazon and Kindle

 

 

the best thing

the best thing

is lying on a bed

made of old couch

cushions laid out

on the floor

my arm around

the now obese,

one-eyed cat,

who once survived

off garbage left

in and around

the dumpsters

by my not-

so-mobile

home.

the best thing

is falling asleep

to the sound of

purring,

as out there

man-shaped

maggots grin,

slap each other

on the backs,

fight over

parking spots,

and cheer for

the fools

whom they pay

millions

to play with

balls.

the best thing

is slipping

into sweet,

sublime

unconsciousness,

as the latest crop

of Romeos seek

for fresh Juliets,

but end by bedding

down with the

coughing corpses

of diseased,

bloated

whores.

my boarded-up

windows mock

them all, as the

cruel, mad sun

performs her daily,

obscene dance,

as the old money turns

and the new world burns,

my smile gently spreads

across this pillow,

this park,

this universe.

 

–Fyodor Bukowski

Check out my Novel by Clicking This.

 

 

 

The Death of Joe’s Auto Repair (and Maybe America too)

Joe ran a two-man auto repair shop.

It was retro-Americana all the way,

with 1950’s style pin-up girls sporting

dimples and curves on the calendars

and a wall sign that proclaimed: “Helen

Waite is our Credit Manager. If you

want credit, go to Hel en Waite.”

But if you were a decent sort, and

you needed it badly enough, Joe

would let you pay next payday, if

you at least had the collateral of a

hearty handshake. And if he figured

you were a really good guy or gal,

he or his fellow mechanic Nick

would pour you shot when your

car was done, and it was always done

right. At 56, Joe worker harder and

better than any two corporate mechanics

half his age. One night, over shots

strong enough to dissolve alien rust, Joe

told me about how he lowered his

cholesterol, but the next day I brought

him a bottle of low dose aspirin, the

kind with the heart on the bottle, just

in case. He laughed and said thanks.

Then several days later, I heard that

he’d died in his sleep after putting in

a full day, right alongside his mechanic,

like he always did. And I have to see it

as one more sign, that the America

I knew is just about dead. And if you

think a big corporate auto dealer’s

service station is an improvement

over places like Joe’s, or if you

believe a country can be great

without guys like him, then I don’t

have much to say to you–except

maybe “Go to Hel en Waite.”