Fat Jeff

Jeff was the fattest

Kid at St. Mary’s

Elementary, and we

Teased him mercilessly.

We didn’t mean to be

Mean. We didn’t plan

Our taunts and jibes.

Our cruelty came as

Naturally as the rain

And lightning. It went

On for years, while Jeff

Started jogging, first

Just down his street

At night, then all the

Way to the mall and

Back. By seventh grade

He ran track, lifted

Weights, played quarter-

back, and was making it

With one sweet cheerleader,

While we, his former

Tormentors spent

Most nights with Ms.

January. Fat Jeff had

chisled himself

Into a lean, mean, sex

Machine. Of course, we

Had something to do with

His transformation. He told

Me as much years after. I’m

Not proud of my former

Cruelty, I told him, one

Day at my house as I

Showed him the riff

To “Day Tripper” on

my Korean guitar.

“Don’t worry ’bout it,”

He said, flashing a

James Dean grin. And

To tell the truth, I don’t.

Our jibes and fat jokes

Made Jeff a better man.

But I’m not too proud of

That either. Had he been

Made of softer stuff, he

Might have killed himself,

And I would have had a

Tough time with that. So

While the past was

Too cruel, the present

May be too kind. How

Many Fat Jeffs today

Lose out on Cheerleader

Booty because

Fat-shaming is uncool

These days? Today’s

Kids fail to comprehend

The meaning behind

Nature’s harsh ways.

Mother Nature is

Cruel, but beautiful

Too.

— F.B.

 

 

 

 

So Foolish

It was so Foolish

Being human,

Always living

In the future

Or the past,

Luxuriating in

Mind-invented

Realms because

We never fit

In the real one.

All those word-

Games called

Philosophies,

Waking up

To shrill alarms

And slaving

Away the days

Just to buy an

Hour or two

Of dreams.

It was something,

It was nothing,

It was too little,

It was too much,

Yet some of the

Transcendence

Came from stepping

Away from our own

Species to hear the

Cries of others.

There was no God

To hear them,

And perhaps

The most horrible

Thing of all was

Realizing that we

Are the closest

Beings to deities

That this universe

Has created yet.

— FB

 

 

 

 

The Lump

Found a lump

On my body

In an impolite

Place the other

Day. Can’t say it

Was a shock. Cancer

Runs in the blood.

Can’t imagine leaving

The cats behind. But

Then again, I can’t

Imagine another

Couple of

Decades or more of

This life either. So while

It wasn’t fun finding the

Lump, I did meet it with

A certain equanimity, even

Something like relief

Muddied up with fear

Of pain. If it Is the big C,

There will be no chemo 

For me, that much

I know. Life was

Nauseating enough,

And I chuckle at

The though of

Asking anyone

To pray.

Either way,

Once you’ve hit a

Certain age, Most

things are 

Anticlimactic

Anyway; so wish

me luck or no luck.

If you’re a fan, or not

So much, all I ask is that

You try to do something

To lessen the sufferings

Of animals. And even

Though you never

Read my novel,

Thanks anyway.

 

— FB

 

 

 

Suicide

I’ve done it

in my mind

so long ago…

The bad guys

kept winning,

and the angels

kept dying. So

I did it in my

mind, though

I let my body live

for my mom’s sake

and for the cats.

But the body

still lives and

even breathes

sometimes. Coffee

is good, and music,

and reading the

words of the great

dead ones too. As for

the rest of you, with

your ball games

and your lawns,

I leave you to

the hell that idiocy

and cowardice

have carved out

for you, as I

stride, ghost

that I am,

through your

once-proud

dying days.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

 

The Danger in Romanticizing

 

A woman’s

hand, no matter

how much

it might

resemble a

dove,

isn’t one.

Seeing it as a

dove is

something

poets and

others who

romanticize

reality do.

And while

that can

be a lovely

way of looking

at life, it’s also

a dangerous

thing too —

especially when

that “dove”

flies

into your

wallet and

uses the

leaves

it finds

there

to fortify

a nest

in an

unromantic

heart.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski

 

 

Nothing Fits

They closed

The last shoe

Store in town,

So there I was

At Wal-Mart

Once again,

Searching

For a pair

Of loafers,

Size 10 Wide,

And seeing

Instead, once

Again, every

Size but that

On the shelves.

But I wasn’t

Alone in this:

Two old ladies

We’re also

Scouring those

Shelves. They

Look thin and

Bedraggled as

Though life had

Given them too

Much and yet

Not enough.

Meantime, I

Smirked to

Myself at the

Loafers sized

9, 9/12, and

You guessed it,

No size 10, when

It came to men’s

Loafers, though

They had the tie-

Up kind, but who

Has time and

Energy for that,

So I grabbed a

Pair of 10 1/2

And sat down

To try them on.

All the while, out

Of the corner of

My eye, I spied

The old ladies

Still searching

The selves, until

One of them

Plopped her

Bones down

On a bench

And Stared

blankly

Ahead and softly

Muttered to

Herself “Nothing

Fits,” again and

Again. The other

Went over and

Put her arms

Around her,

And they sat

Together like

That, rocking

Back and forth

For a while as

I tried to walk a

Few steps in

The soon-to-

Be-mine loafers,

Nearly breaking  

my Neck because

these 20 dollar shoes,

Fashioned by

Slave labor in

Bangladesh,

Were Fastened

 Close together

By a cord I couldn’t

Snap. As I walked

To the check out

Counter I

could still hear

The one lady

Saying “Nothing

Fits,” louder

And louder,

And I knew

Enough to know

That she wasn’t

Just talking about

Shoes.

— Fyodor Bukowski

Buy my acclaimed novel for just a few bucks to help me and stray cats, you worthless ______s. My Novel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where it is

The daily nightmares

keep coming

like them always have

like they always will:

dead animals

in the road,

endless scams,

both virtual

and in-your-face,

watching the

worthless

and the evil

scooping up

goodies,

age after age,

and of course,

like Siddhartha

said: sickness,

old age,

and death.

But

there are moments

that present

themselves

nearly everywhere

that often go

unlived

even though

they offer us what

we’ve really been

looking for

all along.

This morning

after feeding

the cats, I put

the water pot

on the burner

to to make

coffee. I was

in a hurry to

go and cancel

my credit card

after that “free

CBC oil you only

pay shipping

scam.” But after

preparing my cup,

one of

my black cats

jumped up on

the kitchen

table and cried

like she does

when she wants to

jump in my lap;

so I plopped down

in the chair

sipped my coffee

as she purred and

made biscuits with

her paws against

my chest. Slow sip

after sip, sitting

there in the semi-

dark, and feeling

each breath,

I realized

that there was

nowhere I’d rather

be and no

greater

moment

to be sought.

 

— 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)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Are You the Same Person Who Came in Through the Door?

I tried to concentrate

on the words of the

Buddhist giving his

dharma talk. But the

dog outside kept

barking, and the fat

cat named Karma kept

purring on my lap. I

liked the purring, and

though I like dogs too,

the constant barking

was really too much.

But at the time I scolded

myself for being bothered

it and surmised that I just

wasn’t enlightened enough.

So I peeled my eyes from

the fantastic ass of the

nubile young woman sitting

lotus style in front of me,

and put them back onto the

Buddhist giving the dharma

talk. “You’re Not the Same

Person who Came in Through

the Door Only Moments ago,”

he said before explicating

that we are not really

separate, discreet entities,

and that the only thing that’s

constant is change, etc. I’m

sure you’ve heard it all before,

in one form or another, “Each

man is your brother, ” et al.

Well, in a purely scientific

sense, I may not be exactly

the same man now as the one

who’d walked into that

Buddhist temple so many

years ago, but I still can’t stand

dog owners who tie their dogs

up on short leashes for extended

periods of time, to the point

where they bark incessantly

for help. And something in

the wisdom of the blood still

knows that a young woman’s ass

is worth more than any

philosophical stuff. And yeah,

the dog belonged to the jerk who

gave the dharma talk.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie