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