Something Rather Than Nothing

Philosophers and

Physicists have

Asked themselves

Why there is

Something rather

Than nothing. And

I ask myself this too.

And why, if there has

To be something, why

This blood-stained

Food chain that binds

Living beings in a cage

Of horrors, softened only

By beauty, intoxicants,

And lies? And the first

Of these is beauty, hard

To grasp for most of us,

While intoxicants

Have side-effects.

That leaves mostly lies

For the masses, who

Lap them up like

Ambrosia and gobble

Them down like

Golden apples, so

They can believe

Themselves to be

Minor dieties

Or at least something

More sacred than

Mere predators

And prey.

 

— FB

 

 

 

 

 

Clean Scum

It’s amazing

How many

Times I’ve

Sought just

Peace and

Refreshment

At a diner or

Bar, only to

Have Within

Seconds

Of being seated

Some troll

With a mop

Or Spray bottle

Trash my drinking

solace or dining

experience by 

Spraying deadly

Cleaning chemicals

On a bar that was

Already clean. Just

Now a squat, obese

Creature came up

Behind me at

The Denny’s

Counter and

plopped a mop

in a bucket 

Filled to the brim

With Amonia and

Who knows what

Else, creating a toxic

Cloud that within

Seconds scalded my

Throat so badly that

I got up and seated

Myself by the old

Fart who amused

Himself by calling

The hapless young

Waitress honey,

Sweetheart, dear,

Etc. then chortling

About it throughout

The course of my

Brief meal and scalding

My soul in the process.

Toxic clouds of unnecessary

Cleaning agents and loads

Of dumb rude retired

Boomers everywhere.

Leave the counters

And floors be, scrub

Slaves, or at

Least don’t sanitize

Them every five

Minutes for me.

I recall

Reading about

American tourists

In Henry Miller’s

Day leaving French

Restaurants aghast

That the French had

A few other things to

Do with their lives

Beside scrubbing

Everything in sight

Constantly, as though

Americans could

Ever clean up the mess

They’ve made of

Nearly every pure

And perfect thing.

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

Another

Another day

That started

Too early

And ended

Too late

Another 24

Closer to

The ultimate

Fate

Another open-

Eyed opossum

Dead in the road

As the procession

Of scum

Drives by

Another punk

With nothing

Better to do than

Throw M80s

At frogs and

Other buddhas

Too enlightened

Now to ever

Come back

Another high

School teacher

 And her class

Disecting some

Defenseless

Peaceful creature

Or other

Another splitting

Skull ache

And aching back

As the carnival

Of ugly pain

Sets it’s tents

And bloody

Banners

Ever higher

Into the sky

Long empty

Of gods and

Goddesses

Who might

Be willing

Or able

To supply

A reason why

So sling me

Another

Over this bar

As the sad,

Ageing,

And less-than-

Stellar girls

Dance. Some

Had the magic

Healing power

Once upon a

Time but

Wasted it

On the

Cruel and

Worthless.

Knowing

That helps

Me curb my

Natural sense

Of sympathy

So I’m not

Tempted to

Tip them

Too much

 

— FB

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reality is a Blind Piano Player in a Two-Bit Tavern on Hell’s Western Frontier

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

 

 

 

 

Lone Duck

Sad to see

so many sights,

like seeing you,

lone duck,

ambling along

the interstate.

Wish I could

whisk you to

some happier place,

but I’m stuck

here myself.

Wish I could

mind-meld 

with you

and learn why

you’re walking

alone.

Did you lose

your mate?

Or are you

hurt? Either way,

I can relate. Or

was the duck pack

you flew with

too little and

too much to take,

like this endless

stream of

inhuman

humans

buzzing fly?

I wish I

could do more

than write this

poem as you

walk alone,

head down,

along the

interstate,

as I used to do,

so many years

ago, when I

thought that

any road

might take me

somewhere

more and

yet less

human

than here.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

Fyodor wrote a highly-rated mold-shattering novel that no one reads. The readers who are left are too busy reading tripe “written” by moronic celebrities. Thanks, for nothing, morons.  Here’s the link no one will click: Mail-Order Annie

 

Suicide

I’ve done it

in my mind

so long ago…

The bad guys

kept winning,

and the angels

kept dying. So

I did it in my

mind, though

I let my body live

for my mom’s sake

and for the cats.

But the body

still lives and

even breathes

sometimes. Coffee

is good, and music,

and reading the

words of the great

dead ones too. As for

the rest of you, with

your ball games

and your lawns,

I leave you to

the hell that idiocy

and cowardice

have carved out

for you, as I

stride, ghost

that I am,

through your

once-proud

dying days.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

Like a Sovereign

Unlike the

idiot masses

of mental

slaves,

I’m not limited

in my thoughts

and values

according to

the time and

place my body

happens to

inhabit.

Just recently

I’ve immersed

myself in

old-timey

“Hillbilly”

Life,

though I’m

a modern

Northerner

by birth.

(vicious fate).

Of course much

of the old

Appalacian

ways have

been destroyed

by the forces

behind modernity,

but I can imagine

a life of pure

mountain

air, log cabins

built a kingly

distance apart,

barefoot Ellie

Mays, and blue-

grass energy.

It’s just what my

city-soaked soul

needs. And while

I can only live

there and then

mentally

for now and

perhaps the 

rest of this life,

( or at least

until the aliens

agree to whirl

me back to 1893,)

in the

meantime I can

dream and play

those old

Appalacian

melodies

on my dulcimer

and stand atop my

solitary mountain

like a Sovereign 

looking downing

on a life that 

I could choose

to lead,

compete with a

a no-mortgage

log cabin, rows of

corn, and kids who

feel and

think like me.

(There’s no

generation gap

in a real society.)

And I’ll love in 

my mind that

mountain flower

of a wife

waiting in the 

bedroom with

a banjo on

her

knee.

 

— 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