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

 

 

 

 

 

 

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)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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