Mick Jagger’s Facebook

Mick Jagger’s Facebook

 

It’s strange to see Mick

Jagger’s selfies on his

own social media account.

Since he was and still is

one of the most famous

men to ever live, you might

think he’d keep a personal

account private. But no, you too

can follow ( if not friend) the more-

than-famous frontman of

the world’s greatest rock

and roll band. You can even

peep Mick’s selfies and videos:

Mick on his motorcycle, Mick’s

exotic vacation pics, Mick playing

guitar in his bedroom and

harmonica in his living room,

complete with white couch

and oversized Royal Palace

pillow. I guess it’s proof enough

that for some precious few

life in the spotlight never

grows cold.

By Fyodor Bukowski. Read my novel. All proceeds go to homeless cats.

Father Smith’s Sermon

 

Father Smith strode into our fifth-grade

classroom, white hair and beard, a lean

Santa Claus without the sack of toys.

He ordered us to stand. I stood with the rest.

Boys in white shirts, black pants, ties.

Girls in plaid skirts.

 

“EVERYONE LOOK AT TWO OTHER

STUDENTS IN THIS CLASS!” boomed

Father Smith.

 

We did. But instead of glancing at two students,

I looked at Whitney twice. Once at each of her

shapely, brown thighs–at least as much as her

skirt couldn’t hide.

 

“ONE OF THE STUDENTS YOU JUST

LOOKED AT IS GOING TO HELL!”

yelled Father Smith. “Because the BIBLE says

WIDE is the gate and BROAD is the road that

leads to DESTRUCTION!”

 

He shot us all hard stares, then went on:

 

“BUT IF YOU HELP EACH OTHER stay on

the NARROW ROAD which leads to heaven,

you might SAVE ONE OF THE STUDENTS

you just looked upon.”

 

For years after, Father Smith’s words echoed in

my head, but every time Whitney caught trouble,

I failed to even try to set her back on the straight

and narrow. I guess I just couldn’t imagine any

heaven without both of those shapely, brown thighs

wrapped around my head without a halo.

 

–Fyodor Bukowski

The Bottom Feeders

The stripper who

looks like a Bratz doll

is already working

on a cracka’ when

I get to the bar,

so I’m glad to be

packing pen and

writing pad when I

sit down at the

short side of the bar

and start trying to write

but the free cheap

bank pen only gives

ink in fits and starts

before blowing up

like the laughter

of bankers. So I’m

glad when the bar

girl gives me hers.

It’s good to look busy

when the bottom-

feeder dancers start

sizing up my loneliness,

because the bottom one

slides over and asks if

I’d like some company. So

I squeeze out a slight

smile and mutter “no thanks

but it’s nice of you to say

hello.” Then I feel bad

and sad to see her slink

away, because her and I

are really together in

the same circle in

Darwin’s Inferno.

But even so, pity and

empathy don’t override

natural selection, so I

keep writing what no one

wants to read while the

Brat doll keeps laughing and

flashing those long black

lashes of hers at the lonely

old cracka’ she’s still working

on.