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

Musings, Mutterings, and Condemnations

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…

View original post 40 more words

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