The Danger in Romanticizing

 

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

 

 

Nothing Fits

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

Buy my acclaimed novel for just a few bucks to help me and stray cats, you worthless ______s. My Novel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eternal Recurrence

Nietzsche wrote that

The real challenge is

To be willing to live

Your same life

With all of its

Horrors and

Absurdities

again and 

Again, ad

Infinitum.

And I have

To think

That it was

This thought

That drove

Him to the

Loony bin.

It wasn’t

“God is dead.”

I can handle

God being dead,

But not this life

Or anything like

It even one more

Time.

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where it is

The daily nightmares

keep coming

like them always have

like they always will:

dead animals

in the road,

endless scams,

both virtual

and in-your-face,

watching the

worthless

and the evil

scooping up

goodies,

age after age,

and of course,

like Siddhartha

said: sickness,

old age,

and death.

But

there are moments

that present

themselves

nearly everywhere

that often go

unlived

even though

they offer us what

we’ve really been

looking for

all along.

This morning

after feeding

the cats, I put

the water pot

on the burner

to to make

coffee. I was

in a hurry to

go and cancel

my credit card

after that “free

CBC oil you only

pay shipping

scam.” But after

preparing my cup,

one of

my black cats

jumped up on

the kitchen

table and cried

like she does

when she wants to

jump in my lap;

so I plopped down

in the chair

sipped my coffee

as she purred and

made biscuits with

her paws against

my chest. Slow sip

after sip, sitting

there in the semi-

dark, and feeling

each breath,

I realized

that there was

nowhere I’d rather

be and no

greater

moment

to be sought.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

Fyodor Bukowski’s Special Day

I awoke to the soul-

soothing hum of the

window AC, with my

leukemia-positive

rescue cat “Ma Ma”

at my side

on the tolerably-

lumpy futon in

the bedroom of

the not-at-all

mobile “mobile

home” I’ve lived

in now for 16

years. Then

I pried open the 

cat-shredded

guitar case

beside the futon

and pulled out

my all-mahogany

Chinese guitar and

picked n strummed

for a while, stopping

only to wet my

whistle on the

can of generic

ginger ale I’d

started the night

before. Of course,

I had to pull the

sandwich-bag

affixed with a

rubber band

from off the can

first, a precaution

to prevent any-

thing creepy crawly

from getting

inside, you

understand.

Then I

stumbled to

the “living room”

to feed and clean

up for the other

cats. Afterwards,

I chatted it up a 

on the net a bit

with a Vietnamese

cutie, whom I’m

afraid I’ll never

meet. But hey,

they just don’t

make ’em like

that around

here, know what

I mean? And

following that,

I read and

posted some

triggering

memes you’d

have to see to

believe. And

all this to

the sound-

track of the

park manager’s

lawn mower

mowing up and

down and down

and up the length

and breadth of my

considerably-

sized front and

back lawns. And

all this made

me yawn and

smile a special

smile on my

special day.

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of 51lV9z8aeYL (1)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Are You the Same Person Who Came in Through the Door?

I tried to concentrate

on the words of the

Buddhist giving his

dharma talk. But the

dog outside kept

barking, and the fat

cat named Karma kept

purring on my lap. I

liked the purring, and

though I like dogs too,

the constant barking

was really too much.

But at the time I scolded

myself for being bothered

it and surmised that I just

wasn’t enlightened enough.

So I peeled my eyes from

the fantastic ass of the

nubile young woman sitting

lotus style in front of me,

and put them back onto the

Buddhist giving the dharma

talk. “You’re Not the Same

Person who Came in Through

the Door Only Moments ago,”

he said before explicating

that we are not really

separate, discreet entities,

and that the only thing that’s

constant is change, etc. I’m

sure you’ve heard it all before,

in one form or another, “Each

man is your brother, ” et al.

Well, in a purely scientific

sense, I may not be exactly

the same man now as the one

who’d walked into that

Buddhist temple so many

years ago, but I still can’t stand

dog owners who tie their dogs

up on short leashes for extended

periods of time, to the point

where they bark incessantly

for help. And something in

the wisdom of the blood still

knows that a young woman’s ass

is worth more than any

philosophical stuff. And yeah,

the dog belonged to the jerk who

gave the dharma talk.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

People Don’t Change

“People Don’t Change,”

was my mom’s reply

to my dad. With his

barrel chest, Popeye

forearms, and wannabe

Bolshevik beard, there

he was on his knees

in front of her in the

laundry room, tears

streaming down his

beard as he begged

her to take him back

because, he claimed,

“People can change.”

I was 11 and didn’t know

then whether he or she

was right. But now, after

after losing two more wives,

and the love and respect of

all of his kids, and with one

foot and a frayed pant leg in

the grave, he’s still the same

grumpy, delusional, cheap,

lying, petty, and idiotically

violent S.O.B. he’d always been.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

 

 

 

Strong Enough

I can’t stop

Thinking that

Some might

Not be

Strong enough 

Or wise enough

Or dumb enough

Or rich enough

Or lucky enough

To make it

Through.

The forces and

The fates

Can be

And often are

Too much.

I can’t stop thinking 

About Van Gogh

Pulling the trigger 

With trembling

Finger

After Love

And religion

And art had

Failed him.

Then there’s

Hemingway’s

Brain splattered

Against the wall.

And I’m haunted

By the video

Of a Factory farm pig

Shaking with terror

On a freezing

Metal floor

To a soundtrack

Of slaughter

And I can’t stop

Knowing

That a friend

I’ll never meet

Suffers near-

Constant headaches

And I can’t stop

Seeing the face

Of a dancer

Whose illness

Mystified the

Doctors until

She decided to

Sleep it off

forever.

Then I consider

Those who will

Read this, with

Their dead-end

Jobs and hope-

less loves, then

Something like

Strength rises

in me and  roots

for them

And me

And you too

To somehow

Find enough

Strength

To make it

Through.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

* See my novel Mail-Order Annie on Amazon.

.

 

 

Dipshit Viking

He’s the trailer park manager

And has his own double wide

Festooned with cute clay

Smiling animals, but he’s also

Park owner’s henchman who

Tries to track down and evict

Whoever feeds the homeless

Cats. His garage trailer where

He hammers and saws and revs

His Harley is right across from my

Single wide. And over all that

Nerve singeing cacophany, he’d

Blast classic rock loud enough

To penetrate my Hermitage

And fortress of solitude: Skynard,

Bon Jovi, Journey, anything musty

Dumb, and loud enough to

Serve as a soundtrack to his

Mullet-waving idiocy. And to

match the 80s do, he wore

Flannel shirts with cut-off sleeves.

After asking him to turn it down

Several times and having it out

With the Indian owner of trailer

Park hell, I brought in the police.

I stood and watched as the officer

Told him to turn down the

Radio on his Harley several times

As Rob the mullet stood there

Shaking red with rage, all

Five feet six or so of him, like a

Dipshit viking without a axe in

His hand; and I saw it all then, his

Line of fathers and fathers’

Fathers stretching all the way

Back to the Vikings, who raided,

Raped and would have blasted

Their dumb radios too if only

They’d had them. Then the

officer said “Turn it down

Or I’ll write you a Ticket right

now.” And as he said it, the officer

moved his hand over his gun. Well,

Rob turned it down. And things

are somewhat quieter now, but all

this cured me of any interest in

Viking history.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why I Stopped Playing Sentimental Melodies

She was a dancer

Who looked like

Meghan Merkle

Might have looked

At age 23.

I was a sentimental

Poet and wannabe

Classical guitarist

Fond of Segovia

And sentimental

Melodies, though

I was too shot

Through after work

To play anything by

Sor, much less Bach.

But it was the dream.

Surprisingly, she sent

Me a text weeks after

Disappearing from

The trap. So I thought

Just maybe the Chemistry

I’d sensed Might not have 

Been Just me. On the way

To the diner where

We’d agreed to meet,

I told myself to not

Say anything about

Her religious beliefs;

We’d had those debates

Before. But sometime

After dinner, she leaned

Into me, gazed into my

Eyes and told me to check

Out this YouTube video

Spun by a preacher who

Claimed that Jesus would

Be transporting all of his

Faithful up to be with him

In 2012. She said it would

Be cool if we hooked up

In heaven. I searched her

Eyes for signs of insanity,

But didn’t see any. I told

Myself to just play along

And get some Halfrican

Love and much needed

Ass, but despite my hard-

Up condition, I leaned

Right in and told her

Straight that the end

Times have been

predicted time and

Again, century after

Century, and come 2012,

We’d either still be glued

To this limiting Earth or

Dead. She looked at me

With glazed eyes and

Sighed, and I knew that

Sigh that always meant

Goodbye. And later that

Night I tried to play a

Sentimental melody

On the classical guitar,

But halfway through

The first few bars of

“Romanza” by anonymous

I laughed, put it down,

And never tried again.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When it was Clear that the Battle was Lost….

When it was clear

that the battle was

lost, the Cimbri

women, swords in

their hands, slew

their fleeing brothers,

fathers, husbands.

When it was clear

that the Romans

had won, the Cimbri

women strangled

their children, then

took their own lives.

Now that it’s clear

that love and poetry

has lost to modernity,

what are we to do? I

don’t believe in killing

children, whether in

the lost world or in

the womb; and you

could argue that to

bring them into this

age, without money

to their names, is an

act of bravery. As for

me, I chose to not

create any, because

I know the fate of a

wage slave. Which

course the Cimbri

women would call

brave or cowardly,

I can’t say.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

Afraid of the Sun

We’re afraid of everyone–
Afraid of the sun  — John Lennon

 

I’m amazed at how consistent

people are with their love

for the sun and so-called

“wonderfully-sunny weather.”

It may be the Mozart-playing

vampire in my genetic woodpile,

but my gut aches with dread to see

a bright red sun in the sky. It makes

me squint hard like Clint Eastwood

in a bloodsoaked spaghetti western

unrelieved by love or sentimentality.

Yet the sun is guilty of far more

heinous crimes, like bringing out

the burglars, rapists, and obnoxiously

loud neighbors. Nietzsche wrote that

mankind is a diseaes on the skin of the

Earth, and more than 50 years on this

whirling ball of dirt has taught me the

worth of those words. So the next time

you’re basking in your love of that

flaming ball of cancer above,

remember the droughts and the

life-destroying crimes going down

on a brightly-lit boulevard near

you.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

Waste

Old dad (too bad

he’s still breathing)

used to say I was

wasteful with my

money though I

bought the cheapest

single-wide, the

cheapest wheels,

and shopped at

Wal-Mart; but I did

spend in pursuit of

my bliss, which

usually got away

from me anyway.

But if I was wasteful

in my own way, I was

never as wasteful as

Nature herself or the

god old dad (but not

his actions) believed in.

But be the ultimate force

nature or god, I could

never be as wasteful

as it or he who created

all the loving dogs

and cats put to sleep in

“shelters” every day. And

I would never stoop to

waste like whoever or

whatever created 99.9% of

all species that ever existed

on Earth, which are now

extinct. To be and Not

to be. And who or what

could be as wasteful as

whatever shot love into

so many human hearts….

Hearts now shriveled and

hideous like so many heads in

a widowed cannibal’s honeymoon

hut. And I was never one to waste

like whetever fiend hardened so

many erections with no pretty

place to blow their creative cargo.

And I could never want to be as

shamefully wasteful as whatever

cosmic joker decreed that there

should be o so many novels and

letters and lost love poems which

no one will ever feel, much

less read.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

 

The Sleeping Thief

I’m amazed at those

middle-agers who

bust their humps

all weeks at 2 or 3

jobs (the new

American Dream)

then with a gleeful

glint in their blood-

shot eyes cough up

their much-anticipated

weekend plans. As for

me, I sleep right through

most of mine, only

occasionally rising for

brief breaks to strum

the black dulcimer,

feed the fat cats, and

perform the most

necessary of functions.

There’s nothing quite

like sleeping all night

then snoozing until

6 or 7 pm the next day.

And there’s no satisfaction

that can compare to partially

awaking in the middle of that

bliss to the white noise of the

window air conditioner

humming away to mask any

sounds of humanity beyond

my bedroom window. At those

moments of partial awakening,

a thrill shivers through me to

know that I’ve once again

robbed Life of the opportunity

to break my body or mind with

some new absurd calamity.

And at times like those, I

smile to know that I’ve

robbed the Day of it’s

evil plans to gut my wallet

in quest of some adventure,

as if any waking dream could

be sweeter than sleep.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

Cute Asian Invasion

I’m waiting for all

attractive Asian

ladies of a ripe

and ready age

to come invade

my nation and

help turn

History’s page.

I’ve suffered

much in this

longish life

and to heal

me now

after all

that strife

isn’t in the

cards, you

see; but at

least having

some kitty-

faced angels

in place, here,

there, and

everywhere

as the Beatles’

song plays,

would go a

long long way

towards assuaging

my grief and

lingering rage

at the gods and

goddesses too,

and might even

make those days

that remain

more bearable,

if not beautiful.

So bring on

those cosplaying

Hello-Kitty

apparrel wearers,

those dark-eyed

K Pop biological

cute bombs

with Betty

Boop eyelashes

and giggling

girlish ways.

I’ve had enough

of female

masculinity

and co-ed

lavatories;

no thank

you, PC.

The Yang

needs the Yin,

as the ancient

Daoists knew

that to bow

to cosmic truth

is no sin;

and Vive la

Difference,

as the French

used to say,

though now

I’m sure

that’s considered

“hate.” So bring 

on those 

kawaii ladies

who make

heart shapes

with their hands

that fly through

my mind like

psychadelic

doves. Arm

them with

oozies and

shoot me

with

love.

 

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

Half a Beer Here, One or Three Dances There

Half a beer here 

A dance or two

There.

I remember when

The strip clubs

Were packed

With femininitie’s

Finest but that

Was long ago

Now even the

Average charge

Too much for

Some bump n

Love and that’s

If you can find

A place where

You can touch

What you can’t

Taste. That’s why

I find my way to

The black clubs.

While the ice

Princesses

Put you off

More or less,

The Nubian

Princess will

Take my chalk

White hands

And press them

To their round

Brown buns and

Tell me to squeeze

And smack hard

Besides, they

Don’t look like

The girls who

Broke my heart

Ten thousand

Times, but

After all, it’s

About that

cracka Cash

Even though

Mine don’t

Come with

Much cheese

So I know not

To linger too

Long there

Either….half

A beer here

One of three

Dances there

Then it’s try

And make it

To the car so

I can head on

Home to feed

The rescue cats.

And that’s pretty

Much that.

— F.B.

 

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

 

Goodbye, My Valkyrie

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

 

 

 

 

Don’t Believe

Don’t believe

The bumper stickers

And bs artists; you’re

Not only as young

As you feel, and you

Can’t believe the

Patriotic lies about

Being born free;

You’re only as free

As you can afford

To be, buddy. But

This is not to say

That all is black

Clouds and hard

Rain: there’s a lot

To be said for the

So-called simple

Pleasures, like a

A cup of great coffee

Or the smile of a

Woman, whether or

Not she’s all that

Lovely. It takes a lot

Of struggle to obtain

Even those. And come

To think of it, even

Dark clouds and hard

Rain are beautiful in

Their way.

 

–Fyodor Bukowski

The Fat Sounds He Made

One of the best pleasures

a sensitive human being

can have in this realm

is to luxuriate in the sound

of Andres Segovia

pressing his fat, sausage-

shaped fingers into and

against the nylon strings

of a classical guitar.

Segovia (1893-1987)

rescued the guitar

from the “noisy fingers”

of Flamenco players

in his native Spain,

and he brought

the guitar to the

concert stage

and the music of

Bach, Schumann,

and other supreme

spinners of heart-tearing

soul-healing melodies.

I’ve listened to packs

of classically-trained

guitarists since Segovia

passed, but not one of

them comes close to

the sounds he made,

especially when he’d

play a chord, which

then died away,

except for one lone

note, which he rocked

back and forth with

a sausage-shaped

finger in his

unashamedly-

romantic way.

So much so that

many modern

classical guitarists

now mock his

style as “sentimental.”

 

But what they fail

to undertand is

that in music as

in life, it often

comes down to

that one person

one moment

one note

sounding

long after

the others

have

faded

away.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

Glitzy Brutality

Seen from a distance

this so-called civilization

of ours must look pretty

civilized indeed: those

altitudinous, mirrored

skyscrapers reaching

ever skyward in man’s

eternal effort to dry

hump the hell

out of heaven.

 

But the closer you get

to street-level

the dryer the wet

dream gets.  You’ve

seen and heard it

all before: tired

and defeated

human beings

looking more

like Chinese

street cats than

those fabled

creations

stationed half-

way between

the beasts and

angels those

medieval scribes

swore that we are.

 

Then there’s

the brutal crime

bloodying our

intention-paved

streets, crimes

most cavemen

would cringe

to commit, most

of which aren’t

televised. So what

does modernity

and technology mean?

Is each new invention

and glimmering

building another

rung on a ladder

taking us closer to

the angels; or are

we like Chinese

street cats, a species

born in domestication,

coddled and sometimes

fed for a while, then

destined to be

abandoned by our

masters to roam

hungry and broken

among the ruins

of towering

dreams?

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie. Please buy the book. I take care of a lot of cats.

Pain Management

So much of life

for many

boils down to

mostly pain-

management.

I remember

grandma, who’d

escaped commies

during WW2, but

just barely, and

with my five-year-

old, starving future

father in tow. After

that she smiled and

drank her way

through the

decades; but

then one night,

when she didn’t

know I was still

awake, I saw her

shaking on the

couch, her face

contorted into

one I couldn’t

recognize.

Later I found out

it was bone

cancer. Then I heard

her yelling at my father

because he’d been

praying to keep her

alive.

The other day a

pain like a switchblade

struck the back of my

knee and kept striking

for several days and nights–

right past the pain meds.

At first I could hardly believe

it when I heard the doctor

say it was just a sprain, but

then he added it was

pinching a nerve that was

setting off others.

And then there was

Larry, my fat, furry cat

and adopted son, whose

tumor grew back after a

costly operation; and the

cries and moans he made

finished off what was left

of my heart. Well, if you’re

reading this, you’re alive,

and you already know

(or soon will) that

much of life is pain.

And that pain is often

too much, despite those

who say that the “Good

Lord, never gives us

pain that we can’t bear”

and those who maintain

that pain teaches us

lessons we wouldn’t

otherwise hear.

Now, I find that an

internet friend, a lovely

soul, suffers constant

headaches, and I wish

that I could cure those,

don’t you know, and I

do have hope for her;

but when it comes to

pain in gneral, I’m

haunted by the words

of a buddhist monk,

who said that if the

Buddha could have

eliminated suffering

once and for all,

he would have.

Wouldn’t you?

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, 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

 

 

 

 

 

The Knock at the Door is Never a Good One

The knock at the door

is never a good one

like the long-lost love

or even a sexy rep from

the Illumanati sent to

inform me that if I just

join with then they’ll

set me up for life in a

job that I love, like starting

a no-kill cat shelter to be

staffed by an assortment

of feline-loving ladies.

But the knock at the door

is never a good one, like

some smarmy-smiling

game show host sent

to present me with a

colossal check for

winning a contest I can’t

even remember entering;

and the knock at the door

is never the sexy, mysterious

lady I once passed my

number to on a beer-stained

napkin in the kind of club

our mothers warned us about.

Instead the knock is about a

bum twenty I unknowkingly

passed at the local McDonalds

a month or so prior, or a

Jehovah’s Witness looking like

genetic hell warmed over one

too many times, or some

borderline-sociopathic

neighbor asking if he can

mow the lawn I don’t even

give a damn about. Hell,

“let the grass grow” and

“never answer the knock

at the door” are just two

of my favorite mottos,

don’t ya know.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

Divide et Impera

Divide and Conquer

is the rulers’

ancient motto,

as true in Ancient

Mesopotamia as

it is in modern

America. One

political party

tells us that walls

and guns are

immoral, except

when they’re

protecting their

own elite backsides.

The other party

tries to tell me

that my boss

can smirkingly

declare that I

can only go pee pee

twice in eight hours,

because he works for

the man who owns the

factory, don’t you

know, it’s not the size

of a man’s bladder

but his bank account

that matters. And so

it goes with 1000

other issues. The

maddness is split

right down the middle,

like Solomon’s baby

would have surely

been, had not wise

Solomon been

there. But no matter

how wise we may

grow, the rulers’

game is just too

perfect now, after

centuries of practice

slicing our ancestors

right down the middle,

after centuries upon

dead centuries of

dividing, conquering,

and ruling the

cooing

masses.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

 

 

Byron and Shelley Loved Guns

Both were poets

when poetry

meant more

than a group

on Facebook

or a hobby horse

for academics.

And both men were

Liberals when the

word meant more

than a nest of the

enemies of free-

perception,

self-defence,

and speech.

Shelley staked

his inheritance,

Oxford feather nest,

and his status as a

Peer of the Realm

for the poor,

deluded,

and oppressed;

while Byron

sacrificed his health

and envied life

fighting for the

Greeks, who

spawned

The West.

And both poets

carried dueling-

pistols wherever

they went, and kept

them near their

heads as they slept.

And both Shelley

and Lord Byron

understood well

that men

and their words

can only

live free

when the gun

lies near.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

No One Wants You To Have What’s Good

There’s this strip club

where the dancers

are black and the

best of them have

doll faces and

mommy bodies

with the kind of

curves that the

African gods

only gave to

African girls

whose ancestors

sometimes chose

their kings and

queens on their

dancing and not

killing ability

and that’s real

not from a movie

anyway, whenever

I spy an exceptional

cutie there, and chat

her up for private

dances downstairs

the kind of the white

ice princesses

don’t often give

the club dj

derails my vibe

by calling that

cutie I was

just chatting up

to the main

stage instead

but I’m not

surprised by

such tactics

anymore I know

damn well that

no one in this

world really

wants me or

you for that

matter to have

what’s good

not even my

mama would

want me to have

that first class doll-

faced mommy-

body cutie no

matter how she

might make my

perennially-

depressed

and sometimes

suicidal head swim

with endorphins all

dancing like African

princesses in a land

with no need of

strip clubs Hell not

even our friends

really want

us to have what’s

good unless it

would also benefit

them of course and

that’s why no so-

called friends who

said they loved me

like a brother ever

tried to set me up

with an ex GF

worth having or

a lovely sister even

when the world

weighed down on

me like a wicked

stepmother and a

lovely female would

have made the

demons in my

death-wishing head

jump for joy like

dolphins in a coked-

up  ocean….

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

When You Looked Most Lovely (for B.C.)

Days into nights

I saw you

on that stage,

wearing false paint

on your already-

glowing face

and silly glittering

heels strapped to

your tiny

doll’s feet.

You swayed and

rocked in some

skimpy costume

and your hair was

always coiffured

immaculately.

But then one day

I saw you just arrive

in the parking lot

to work,

wearing faded

jogging pants

and a dollar-store

sweat shirt,

and no make-up

at all, with your

hair pillow-fresh

and falling free–

that’s when

you looked

most lovely

to me.

 

— fyodor bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE

Serpentine Melodies

As the melody of Bach’s Suite in E minor

(BWV 996) snakes up from the signal spark

of elemental life in creation’s chemical froth,

slithers upwards and grows legs on the

greening earth, then scaled wings, colossal

brains, then armored legs striding into ships

sailing across ladles and centaurs of stars for

eons end to end, only to find that there’s no life

at all out there after all; meanwhile, no one on

this frozen Earth remains to recall how we sat

in leased Kias in parking lots and laughed at the

perfect hopelessness of our lives on this ball,

how our jobs and lives were made increasingly

insane and impossible by stuffed suits who sat in

perfect suavity, smirking at the controlled chaos

they created for the many, as we fell to exhaustion,

heart attacks, strokes, insanity, despair, et al., while

the women most equipped by nature of revivifying

those sparks of inner fire in us went to the controllers

and their most brutal minions instead, those masters

held Earth’s best beauties in their arms, as they

smirked above their centuries-crafted chaos, as we,

the street-level slaves, stupid enough to have believed

we were free, slumped over behind the wheels of

leased Kias, cheap beer on our breaths, between

endless errands, in the parking lots of corporations,

bars, dollar stores, death-food joints, strip clubs,

mega-churches, sports arenas, and malls, and

listened on leased car radios, to this or that vivifying

melody that seemed to take us somewhere, anywhere,

oh anywhere else at all….

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE

 

 

 

Keith Richard’s Cat

Tough Riff-master rocker

Keith Richards writes

in his autobio LIFE

that when he was a

kid, his mother Doris

“didn’t like animals”

and killed all his pets,

including his cat who,

his mother had said,

“was pissing all over

the place.” So little Keith

“put a note on her bedroom

door, with a drawing of a

cat, that said “Murderer.'”

But the parts of this story

that hit me hardest were

Keith’s comment: “I never

forgave her for that,” and

his mother’s reply to him

after he’d called her out as

a murderer: “Don’t be so soft.”

Maybe this, along with the

bullying Keith endured as a

kid, was why he spent much

of the 60’s high-enough-to-die–

despite the money, women,

and musical success. There

are some things we can never

forgive, no matter what the

preachers say. And I’m glad

Keith wrote about his cat the

way he did. It shows me once

again, that inside every tough

guy is a hurt, angry kid, who

should never forgive.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

Garbage Cat (for Alex)

One of his eyes was

pale. He had a bad

snaggle tooth, and he

was one big cat.

The trailer park tards

called him “Garbage

Cat” because he lived

out of the dumpsters.

The neighbor lady

started putting cat food out

on her porch. Sometimes I’d

watch Alex head there with

two small, black cats.

What struck me most

was the way he’d let

the little ones eat first,

and the way he’d growl

low and mean if you tried

to get too close. Then the

lady told me that the

manager was poisoning

strays. She and I both already

had cats, so I used her trap

and took Alex and his two

pals to a no-kill shelter where

he tested positive for the cat-

version of AIDS. Luckily, there

was a big, exclusive room there

for cats with that. It was furnished

with a couch, litter boxes, and toys.

Volunteers came to pet the cats and

clean. Alex became a celebrity there.

He lived well for over ten years,

and when he finally grew too thin

and tired, and didn’t want to eat,

I walked into his room, held him,

and said, “Goodbye for now.”

 

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

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.

 

How LeBron Helps Save me Money

Word around Cleveland used to be

that LeBron was a lousy tipper or

didn’t even tip at all. Now I’m not

exactly what anyone would call

a great humanitarian, but for

many years I was a good tipper.

Better than most–even when

money was tight, as it usually

was and is. But whenever I’d

look into the careworn face of

waiter, waitress, or other service

worker, I ‘d always tip at least 25-

40%. After all, I told myself, we’re

all just slaves on this global

plantation now. Hell, I’d even

tip big at the sandwhich shop

down the street, whose spokesman

struck me as disturbing, even

before he was outed as a major

kiddie diddler. But then LeBron-

mania washed over Cleveland,

and the rest of the nation, like

10,000 tons of liquified BS.

The towering LeBron billboard,

featuring the man himself in a

messianic pose no less, stood

menacingly as an affront to the long-

cherished myth of Karmic Justice

itself. After all, if the rumors are

even half-true, could even a quantum

microscope detect the soul of a man

so tiny that it wouldn’t motivate it’s

corporeal host to leave big tips for

his own adoring fans, who wait on him

at table or bar? Of course, this criticism

is only valid assuming that the rumors of

him being a terrible tipper are true,

which I couldn’t vouch for myself,

though I have talked to a dancer

and two waitresses who personally

attested to the rumor’s validity. Well,

that was enough for me, that and

the fact that I’ve noticed most star-

athletes are jerks, whether it

be in high school or the NBA.

But getting back to how LeBron

saved me money….Like I said, I’d

gotten into the habit of tipping big

and when I was thanked I’d quip

back something like, “Hey, I’m no

LeBron, okay.” To which the counter

stiff, dancer, or waitress would retort

something like “Hey, as long as he keeps

winning us games!” or even “SO WHAT?

He gives in other ways!” as if tax-deductable

“donations” are the same as real giving–

face-to-face. Well, after getting enough

reactions like these, I really had to

wonder why I was wasting my hard-

earned cabbage on cucks and clucks.

I decided to save my money, donate

more to homeless cats, and use my

money and words to beat the crap

out of humanity instead.

 

–Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion). I won’t even bother to link it here. Go buy a LeBron bio instead, morons.

 

 

 

 

 

The Consequences of Not Winning the Lottery

The consequences of not winning

the lottery can be severe. There are

as many kinds of lotteries as there

are people, heavens or hells: the Good-

Looks lottery, the Silver Spoon Lottery,

and who could forget The-Being-in-the-

Right-Time-and-Place Lottery.

A player can win or lose as many

lotteries as that fickle wheel of Fortune

dictates. Some win them all; some none.

While some win some: take Lord Byron

for example: he won all three of those

mentioned already, but he lost The-4-

Sound-and-Healthy-Limbs Lottery…

by one. And then there other cases:

say, for example, the lame and ugly

sonneteer haunting the 21st Century

bus stop at the corner of Bad Genes

Street and Terrible Timing Avenue.

Needless to say, the consequences of

losing all three of the aforementioned

lotteries are dire indeed, while the player

who wins even one might have a

chance. Good looks, riches, or even

just four sound and healthy limbs,

with a little luck, could lead a player

to the promised land. But even one

mistep could bring the winner of just

one lottery down, causing that player

to slip into one of the many hells

that lie languidly yawning

for players like you

and me.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Opossum in the Road

I have this walking nightmare

that sometimes comes true:

the nightmare is that I see a

wounded animal in the road and

there’s not much I can do about it.

One night when practically

nothing was going according to

plan, the Big Prick in the

sky decided to make things even

worse: I’m driving along and see

an opossum in the middle of the

road, half-upright, and staring

straight ahead. So I pull over,

get out of the car and defying

the inexorable flow of idiotic

traffic, walk up to him or her,

and notice that the legs are

crushed and there’s blood around

the mouth. It was likely the usual

case: some sports fan must have

hit him and just drove off to his

ball game, Wal-Mart, or fat wife.

I call the police, explain, and

ask for an officer to come and

put the opossum out of his misery.

The dispatcher, sounding bored,

says she’ll send someone. Fifteen

or so long minutes later, I call

back. The officers are busy with

“more important matters.” I say if

those cops were real men, they

wouldn’t tolerate a system that

keeps releasing criminals so they

have to catch and arrest them

all over again. Then with an eye-

rolling voice, she addresses me by

name and says they’re on their

way. By then I’m cursing myself for

not having a shovel with me, so I

drive home, grab one, double back,

and see the opossum’s head down–

no life in the eyes. I use the shovel

to move him or her under a

nearby tree. When the officer

arrives, he’s tired, but polite. I ask

him to shoot the poor creature,

just to make sure he’s not

suffering; but the officer assures

me he’s dead, though he doesn’t

seem to give a damn any more

than the endless steam of

motorists, driving by, towards

their own inglorious deaths.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion): MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion)

 

 

 

 

Real Ghosts

Forget about that cartoon

friendly ghost and forget

about that wisp-of-fog

that looked surprisingly

like Lucky, your first dog.

And forget about those

specter-detectors the

comic books tried to sell

you when you were 13.

An honest ghost-  

detective once stated

that he’d spent three

decades and tons of

money exhaustively

searching for evidence

of even one example

of ghostly activity but

could verify none.

And like the rare honest

politician, he found that

telling the truth was the

quickest way to end a

career. But there are

real ghosts. I see them

nearly everywhere now:

the library, mall, the fast-

food spot down the street.

Most would say they’re

just as flesh-substantial

as you or me, though

their clothes tend to

be frayed and ratty,

but not always. These ghosts

either mutter to themselves

or say nothing at all. Their

faces often resemble those

crumpled road maps we’d

shove in our glove compartments

back in the 80s. And like those

maps, their faces never took

them where they needed to be.

Sometimes they look hard at

those living ones who can only see

through or past them, and then these

ghosts ask themselves if anything or

anyone else is real. To tell you

the truth, I’m starting to wonder

if I’m becoming a ghost myself;

it seems like they’re the only ones

who can see me these days. Like

I’m becoming increasingly

insubstantial to the living as

the years stagger on. Even now,

as I type this, I could swear I see

my fingers pass halfway into the

keyboard. And I doubt this poem

will be felt by anyone of living blood

–or anyone who could make me

real again.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion) : Click on this.

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.