The Consequences of Not Winning the Lottery

The consequences of not winning

the lottery can be severe. There are

as many kinds of lotteries as there

are people, heavens or hells: the Good-

Looks lottery, the Silver Spoon Lottery,

and who could forget The-Being-in-the-

Right-Time-and-Place Lottery.

A player can win or lose as many

lotteries as that fickle wheel of Fortune

dictates. Some win them all; some none.

While some win some: take Lord Byron

for example: he won all three of those

mentioned already, but he lost The-4-

Sound-and-Healthy-Limbs Lottery…

by one. And then there other cases:

say, for example, the lame and ugly

sonneteer haunting the 21st Century

bus stop at the corner of Bad Genes

Street and Terrible Timing Avenue.

Needless to say, the consequences of

losing all three of the aforementioned

lotteries are dire indeed, while the player

who wins even one might have a

chance. Good looks, riches, or even

just four sound and healthy limbs,

with a little luck, could lead a player

to the promised land. But even one

mistep could bring the winner of just

one lottery down, causing that player

to slip into one of the many hells

that lie languidly yawning

for players like you

and me.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Opossum in the Road

I have this walking nightmare

that sometimes comes true:

the nightmare is that I see a

wounded animal in the road and

there’s not much I can do about it.

One night when practically

nothing was going according to

plan, the Big Prick in the

sky decided to make things even

worse: I’m driving along and see

an opossum in the middle of the

road, half-upright, and staring

straight ahead. So I pull over,

get out of the car and defying

the inexorable flow of idiotic

traffic, walk up to him or her,

and notice that the legs are

crushed and there’s blood around

the mouth. It was likely the usual

case: some sports fan must have

hit him and just drove off to his

ball game, Wal-Mart, or fat wife.

I call the police, explain, and

ask for an officer to come and

put the opossum out of his misery.

The dispatcher, sounding bored,

says she’ll send someone. Fifteen

or so long minutes later, I call

back. The officers are busy with

“more important matters.” I say if

those cops were real men, they

wouldn’t tolerate a system that

keeps releasing criminals so they

have to catch and arrest them

all over again. Then with an eye-

rolling voice, she addresses me by

name and says they’re on their

way. By then I’m cursing myself for

not having a shovel with me, so I

drive home, grab one, double back,

and see the opossum’s head down–

no life in the eyes. I use the shovel

to move him or her under a

nearby tree. When the officer

arrives, he’s tired, but polite. I ask

him to shoot the poor creature,

just to make sure he’s not

suffering; but the officer assures

me he’s dead, though he doesn’t

seem to give a damn any more

than the endless steam of

motorists, driving by, towards

their own inglorious deaths.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion): MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion)

 

 

 

 

Real Ghosts

Forget about that cartoon

friendly ghost and forget

about that wisp-of-fog

that looked surprisingly

like Lucky, your first dog.

And forget about those

specter-detectors the

comic books tried to sell

you when you were 13.

An honest ghost-  

detective once stated

that he’d spent three

decades and tons of

money exhaustively

searching for evidence

of even one example

of ghostly activity but

could verify none.

And like the rare honest

politician, he found that

telling the truth was the

quickest way to end a

career. But there are

real ghosts. I see them

nearly everywhere now:

the library, mall, the fast-

food spot down the street.

Most would say they’re

just as flesh-substantial

as you or me, though

their clothes tend to

be frayed and ratty,

but not always. These ghosts

either mutter to themselves

or say nothing at all. Their

faces often resemble those

crumpled road maps we’d

shove in our glove compartments

back in the 80s. And like those

maps, their faces never took

them where they needed to be.

Sometimes they look hard at

those living ones who can only see

through or past them, and then these

ghosts ask themselves if anything or

anyone else is real. To tell you

the truth, I’m starting to wonder

if I’m becoming a ghost myself;

it seems like they’re the only ones

who can see me these days. Like

I’m becoming increasingly

insubstantial to the living as

the years stagger on. Even now,

as I type this, I could swear I see

my fingers pass halfway into the

keyboard. And I doubt this poem

will be felt by anyone of living blood

–or anyone who could make me

real again.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion) : Click on this.

Those Lives with Great Plot-Lines

We love following

and reading about

those famous people

whose lives make

for great plot-lines: the

young writer whose father

throws his first manuscripts

out onto the front lawn, who

then starves in the streets,

only to eventually be discovered

and bring poetry back

to the many;  The gangley, gap-toothed

guitarist who cops a few chords and

early rock riffs then nearly freezes

in squalor with his “mates,”

who go on to rock the balloon-filled

stadiums of the world, marry supermodels,

and grow gold as country gentlemen,

because they were good AND they hit the scene

at just the right time and place.

We especially love those rags-to-riches plots,

played-out in real life; but don’t forget that

for every one of those, there are millions of lives

marked by early struggle, sparkles or even

bonfires of promise, which only go on

to get snuffed by bad weather, hit up against too

much resistance, and so they never get

the applesauce applause, much less the country

castles. And don’t make the mistake of thinking,

that all of those were somehow less

than the the great and lucky ones;

too often the forces fail

to congeal in such a way

as to make peoples’ lives

the stuff of great

plot-lines.

 

–by Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion) Click here: MAIL-ORDER ANNIE

 

 

 

A Good Way to Die

My favorite death scene

is when “The Motorcycle Boy”

in RUMBLEFISH breaks into

the pet store at night to free

these fighting fish. While he’s

doing it, he mutters something

about the fish, how they won’t

need to fight, if they just can

make it to the river. Now the

motorcycle boy, played by

Mickey Rourke, knows that

the pet store is guarded by

this hard ass cop who’s had

it out for him for him for a

good long time, so when the

“boy” is gunned down in the

street with that fish tank in

his arms, we get the idea

that he was ready for end

and even wanted it to go

that way.

Now I’ve been thinking

of another good way to

make a final exit, say

there’s this guy who feeds

stray cats and he’s really

pissed because the only

others who seem to care

are mostly older ladies

whose maternal urges have

been displaced onto hapless cats.

Now say this guy is mad about

more than just how society

regards cats, so when he goes

to feed them, or change the straw

in the makeshift shelter he’s built,

he’s strapped with a .38 on his side.

And say that one day (or night)

he feels that his light is spent, so

he really takes his time

pouring out the dry food and

laying the wet food over it, then

arranging the straw in the shelter

just right, until finally, some cow-faced

fool comes hoofing out of his castle of

commerce or over-mowed  back yard

and yells something like, “Hey, quit feeding

those cats!” So then our cat-guy pulls his

revolver, aims it, and blows a big hole out

the back of cow face’s fat head.

Then our hero waits for the cops to

arrive, while his hands are shaking,

because this isn’t some movie directed

by Francis Ford Coppola, and he’s just

not as cool as The Motorcycle Boy, and

he knows what comes next; but still he

has no regrets. He’s even relieved, feels

he’s chosen his end well, even if only a

few can see it that way.

 

by Fyodor Bukowski

Check out his novel MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion).

 

You Never Knew Me

Has is happened to you?

One of your”friends” or

someone who’s family

says something

which makes you realize

that even after

all the words and happenings

you’ve survived together,

this friend or

family member

never knew you–

not really–

not even a little

It’s an illuminating

moment for sure

but what it reveals

is just one

of those things

you never

really wanted

to see

 

–Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion) on Amazon and Kindle