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)

Goodbye, My Valkyrie

Another morning of

trying to force this

failing body from

this warm futon

to carry on the

life struggles known

to peasantry. On

mornings like this,

I used to visualize

a woman standing

above me, a luminescent,

fair creature, an angel,

a warrior princess,

a valkyrie, holding

out her dove-white

but strong hand,

ready to clasp mine

and pull me up and

into the fray common

to those who never

won life’s lottery; but

just like the so-called

“real” women of flesh-

and-bowels, who cavort

their way through life’s

deadly pageantry, I finally

gave her up too this morning,

because she was never

really there anyway, you

see, just like the “real” ones,

a few of whom were

present, sure, for a

time, at least in body,

while the gravy was

good; but they never

stayed through the thin

gruel days. So where does

an imaginary warrior-

maiden and soul-mate

Sail after a man has finally

said goodbye?

Does she head over

to comfort the worst

of men: the braggarts,

the blockheads, the

mindless materialists,

the drug dealers, the

pimps and puppy abusers?

Are these the ones that

imaginary valkyries fly

towards to pull up from

their beds and futons to face

life’s hard realities? I wouldn’t

be surprised if that’s true;

after all, what did the so-called

real women do, most often,

with their priceless, life-giving

eyes, and thighs, and lips, and

all the rest, but gift them to the

most worthless and least grateful

of men? Therefore, following more

than half-a-century of scribbling 

love notes and poetry and even

sometimes song mixed

with sincerity of longing, and not

looking half-bad at all, according

to more than a few, I finally gave

up on those real women of lovely

flesh but thin blood; and this

morning, I even said my final

Farewell to my angel of light, my

valkyrie, my princess of the

mind. This may be poetry, or it

may be self-pity; but it

also happens to be the undiluted,

undeluded reality of my life, and

the lives of many others too. So fly

away fly on, and keep flying, my

valkyrie, because you

were never really there above my

bed. Spread those wings 

And soar into some gods-

forsaken eternity, and

I’ll stay under these covers just a

little while more. 

 

–Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

 

 

 

The Fat Sounds He Made

One of the best pleasures

a sensitive human being

can have in this realm

is to luxuriate in the sound

of Andres Segovia

pressing his fat, sausage-

shaped fingers into and

against the nylon strings

of a classical guitar.

Segovia (1893-1987)

rescued the guitar

from the “noisy fingers”

of Flamenco players

in his native Spain,

and he brought

the guitar to the

concert stage

and the music of

Bach, Schumann,

and other supreme

spinners of heart-tearing

soul-healing melodies.

I’ve listened to packs

of classically-trained

guitarists since Segovia

passed, but not one of

them comes close to

the sounds he made,

especially when he’d

play a chord, which

then died away,

except for one lone

note, which he rocked

back and forth with

a sausage-shaped

finger in his

unashamedly-

romantic way.

So much so that

many modern

classical guitarists

now mock his

style as “sentimental.”

 

But what they fail

to undertand is

that in music as

in life, it often

comes down to

that one person

one moment

one note

sounding

long after

the others

have

faded

away.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

Pain Management

So much of life

for many

boils down to

mostly pain-

management.

I remember

grandma, who’d

escaped commies

during WW2, but

just barely, and

with my five-year-

old, starving future

father in tow. After

that she smiled and

drank her way

through the

decades; but

then one night,

when she didn’t

know I was still

awake, I saw her

shaking on the

couch, her face

contorted into

one I couldn’t

recognize.

Later I found out

it was bone

cancer. Then I heard

her yelling at my father

because he’d been

praying to keep her

alive.

The other day a

pain like a switchblade

struck the back of my

knee and kept striking

for several days and nights–

right past the pain meds.

At first I could hardly believe

it when I heard the doctor

say it was just a sprain, but

then he added it was

pinching a nerve that was

setting off others.

And then there was

Larry, my fat, furry cat

and adopted son, whose

tumor grew back after a

costly operation; and the

cries and moans he made

finished off what was left

of my heart. Well, if you’re

reading this, you’re alive,

and you already know

(or soon will) that

much of life is pain.

And that pain is often

too much, despite those

who say that the “Good

Lord, never gives us

pain that we can’t bear”

and those who maintain

that pain teaches us

lessons we wouldn’t

otherwise hear.

Now, I find that an

internet friend, a lovely

soul, suffers constant

headaches, and I wish

that I could cure those,

don’t you know, and I

do have hope for her;

but when it comes to

pain in gneral, I’m

haunted by the words

of a buddhist monk,

who said that if the

Buddha could have

eliminated suffering

once and for all,

he would have.

Wouldn’t you?

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie