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

 

 

One thought on “Waste

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