4:00 am at Denny’s

Waitress in the parking lot

yelling at her bf on the cellphone

Waiter folding napkins

in the back

as I stand at the register

waiting to be seated

for over 5 minutes

Waitress hollers at the bf

storms in I ask to be seated

out of the way

but only one area is “open”

I’m crammed in

with the jabbering hoi polloi

But I need that free wifi now

so I adibe, type up my

necessary work and email

it in to the place that pays me

Mindless music blares away

despite the hour

just as it does everywhere now

the coffee arrives

and I think about those who

hate Poe for marrying

his Virginia though she was

very young while those same

fools cheer and vote for

politicians who

got away with raping little

girls on Epstein’s Island

The coffee is cold

As I try to do some paperwork

for the place that pays me

But my eyes glaze over

So I come to the page

where I type in poems

that perhaps a few like

though they never comment

or pay 2.99 to buy the novel

that I thought might save me

and my rescue cats

And I think about young men

dying in foxholes, watching their

intestines ooze out of their bodies

after the gernades explode

while the politicians who

sent them there rape little

boys in the oval office

then pray to Jesus

to help them find

the patience to make

it through the next campaign

And if you doubt that that

could be true, just read

The Franklin Scandal

It’s true

I order the build-your-own

breakfast with eggs and

cheese They’re out of cheese

which is just fine because

they torture the poor dairy

cows to death Then I remember

that I’m a failed vegan too

though I won’t eat the poor

pigs and I try to avoid meat

I type a few more lines

even if no one really reads

my work My working theory

is that writers often “like”

other writers work simply

so that their work will be

“liked” back And I’ve

clicked on those folks

who’ve like my work

but most of the time

I can’t even find their

work, or when I do

their works are so long

that my minds fails me

halfway through Those

writers who do get

many likes tend to

be young and cute

I find a nook just

quiet enough to

call in sick to work

I’ll go home and sleep,

feed the cats, and

dream just long

enough to renew

the fight to make

it through though

it doesn’t look good

 

— FB, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE

 

 

 

 

How Horrible it is to See You

The same faces, voices, bodies

sent to my life from the cosmic

soup cooked up wherever and

whenever life began. The vast

majority of these faces, voices,

and bodies bring me nothing

but grief. How horrible it is

to see them: the neighbors

always driving by nearly

every time I amble to my

car or the park dumpsters.

Their heads turning to zoom

in on my wild, unkempt hair.

The park manager, with his

fault-finding stare surveying

the failing condition of my

not-so-mobile home. The

creatures who’ve been

sent by merciless chance

to evaluate my work

each and every grinding

day, jobs they and their

supervisors have made

impossible, of course.

The horrible faces

with mis-shapen bodies

attached,

driving by the wounded

and starving “higher

animals” of four legs

on the gore-splattered roads

humanity has paved.

Would it have been

too much for that prick-

in-the-clouds to have

sent one lovely human

face with a heavenly

body attached to help

me most of the way

through this hell-

of-a-life? Well, maybe

Hell is too strong a word,

it’s more like a mostly-

painful purgatory of sorts,

truth be told. And when I

die, may I only see those

furry faces of the non-human

kind, the ones I’ve saved and

those I wasn’t

able to save, waiting for me

with love in their eyes,

and maybe, just maybe,

one human face with

a lovely form attached,

who might whisper my

name.

 

— FB   Buy my novel, you horrible bastards: MAIL-ORDER ANNIE

 

 

 

 

 

The Consequences of Not Becoming a Rock Star

I read the bios

Of certain rock

Stars. I like reading

About the their

Early struggles:

Keith, Mick, and

Brian sharing a flat,

knicking change

to feed the pay-

Heaters, Tony

Iommi persisting

With guitar after

Losing the tips of

His fingers, Ozzy

Getting by with one

Shirt on their first

Euro tour. I eat

These pages up

And am happy

For them when

They finally make

It. But the pages lose

Their flavor when I

Get to the long

Drug binges, wrecked

Hotel rooms, and the

Long trail of discarded

Virgins. I don’t think

It’s jealousy. It’s just

A matter of senseless

Excess, not to mention

Those poor virgins, and

The doves and bats 0zzy

Bit the heads off of. And

Then there’s the nagging

Realization that for most

of us, the early struggles 

Never end and

Will never be

read about

By anyone.

 

— 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

 

Keith Richard’s Cat

Tough Riff-master rocker

Keith Richards writes

in his autobio LIFE

that when he was a

kid, his mother Doris

“didn’t like animals”

and killed all his pets,

including his cat who,

his mother had said,

“was pissing all over

the place.” So little Keith

“put a note on her bedroom

door, with a drawing of a

cat, that said “Murderer.'”

But the parts of this story

that hit me hardest were

Keith’s comment: “I never

forgave her for that,” and

his mother’s reply to him

after he’d called her out as

a murderer: “Don’t be so soft.”

Maybe this, along with the

bullying Keith endured as a

kid, was why he spent much

of the 60’s high-enough-to-die–

despite the money, women,

and musical success. There

are some things we can never

forgive, no matter what the

preachers say. And I’m glad

Keith wrote about his cat the

way he did. It shows me once

again, that inside every tough

guy is a hurt, angry kid, who

should never forgive.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

Garbage Cat (for Alex)

One of his eyes was

pale. He had a bad

snaggle tooth, and he

was one big cat.

The trailer park tards

called him “Garbage

Cat” because he lived

out of the dumpsters.

The neighbor lady

started putting cat food out

on her porch. Sometimes I’d

watch Alex head there with

two small, black cats.

What struck me most

was the way he’d let

the little ones eat first,

and the way he’d growl

low and mean if you tried

to get too close. Then the

lady told me that the

manager was poisoning

strays. She and I both already

had cats, so I used her trap

and took Alex and his two

pals to a no-kill shelter where

he tested positive for the cat-

version of AIDS. Luckily, there

was a big, exclusive room there

for cats with that. It was furnished

with a couch, litter boxes, and toys.

Volunteers came to pet the cats and

clean. Alex became a celebrity there.

He lived well for over ten years,

and when he finally grew too thin

and tired, and didn’t want to eat,

I walked into his room, held him,

and said, “Goodbye for now.”

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie (A Story of Passion and Compassion) : Mail-Order Annie

Keith Richard’s Mouse

When he was a lil Keef,

way before the Stones,

he had a little white mouse

named Gladys. He kept her

in his pocket, brought her

to school and fed her

from his lunch and dinner.

In his autobio he wrote that

“Gladys was true and trusted,”

which is more than can be said

for some so-called humans

from his or any other

life.

 

Well, his mother killed the

little mouse, and  Keith

“never forgave her for that.”

And it’s nice to know that

on some balloon-filled

stadium stage somewhere

in the world

under all that

tough-guy swagger

and bravado rolls

a pretty sweet

soul.

–by Fyodor Bukowski    Read his IndieReader-Approved novel: MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (a Story of Passion and Compassion)      *ALL proceeds go towards feeding and “fixing” homeless cats. (Proof available upon serious inquiry)

Click Here for MAIL-ORDER ANNIE

What Makes a Writer Worth Reading? (For the Dope Who Compared Sam Pink to Charles Bukowski)

After writing my novel, I wanted to show it to people I admire–especially successful literary writers whose works have given me hope and strength. The problem was that THOSE writers are dead.

Charles Bukowski, the bar brawler who had the courage to tell the truth AND the compassion to stick up for animals, died in 94. Not only did he reveal the true face of humanity, but he rescued cats and wrote some powerful poems about them.

Jack Kerouac, granddaddy of the Beats, whose poetic prose and haiku helped open Western minds to animal-friendly Buddhism, drank himself to death in ’69. Not even fame and success could put him at peace with samsaric existence. (In BIG SUR, he laments even the deaths of a beaver and a mouse.)

I could name others. But all of the writers whom I deem GREAT had two things going for them: honesty and compassion…and not necessarily in that order. From Issa, the Japanese haiku master, who recognized all life forms as fellow travelers, to the aforementioned Charles Bukowski, they pulled no punches; yet they all grieved, each in his or her own way, over the suffering of sentient beings.

Of course, to be fair, there ARE writers today who write like it is and who have compassion for animals, and I know a few of them. But they, like me, languish in obscurity–at least the ones I’m aware of. We read and support each other, but really, there’s not a lot we can do to further each other’s writing careers.

Which is why I was happy to read a tweet from a Charles Bukowski fan, which stated, more or less, that fans of CB will like the novels of Sam Pink. So soon I was reading his novel RONTEL. It began well enough, but then, only 9% into the Kindle ebook, came the following:

“In the square of dirt around the tree, a dead cat lay on its side. The carcass was beat the fuck up…First thing I thought was that someone had “peeled out” on top of it…That seemed funny to me–someone “peeling out” on a dead cat. ”

Now I don’t know Sam Pink. He might be an OK guy. He may even have a cat (or more) of his own and be good to him or her. But after reading those lines lines, I would have thrown the book down, but of course that would have ended my Kindle. I just stopped reading him.

As someone who has rescued cats and is always at war, in one way or another, with the creatures called “human beings” who are unnecessarily cruel towards animals, I can’t tolerate that kind of writing. And I knew at once that this is just another overblown author who some publisher was moronic enough to publish, and who some reader is ignorant enough to compare favorably to the late, great Charles Bukowski.

So I guess I’ll just go back to my dead authors…

–FB