A Sport Like Life

After years of being

Tortured at the bar

With TV’s showing

Borderline-morons,

Dog-abusers, and other

Assorted felons playing

Team sports with balls,

Finally today, one lone

Flat screen played live

Motocross, where it’s

One man and his

Two-wheeled horse

Against every other

and his, just like

Life, where so-called

Teams are illusions

At best and the only

Reality is one against

The rest, powering through

The mud, bracing for the

Whoop de doos and flying

High, as far and wide as one

Can, with the ultimate high

Being leaving lesser men

Behind.

— FB

 

 

 

 

Love is a Payday Loan

Love is a Payday Loan.

You leave the counter

Feeling pretty good.

That money feels like

It’s yours. It’s in your

Pocket, after all. It

Feels good, not like

The Smile of first love,

But still pretty good,

Not as good as

the warm paw

Of a beloved pet

On your face stained

With tears after first

Love leaves. You loved

The girl and the pet too.

But when they’re gone

You pay with pain

For those loans of love.

And as for me I’ve paid

And paid for every joy

A woman has ever loaned

Me. I’ve paid with interest

Too, but as for all of my pets

Who’ve crossed the bridge,

Knowing them was worth

All the pain. And I’d pay

It again for each one

Of them.

— FB, author of Mail-Order Annie (a Story of Passion and Compassion)

 

 

 

Ugly Lasts

You gotta know

That the magically

Lovely curvalicious

New girl behind the

Counter at the Walgreens

Won’t be ringing up

Your canned goods for long

But the poor old woman

Whose been there forever

Will be there for another

Eternity or two And you

Must understand that the

Sexy new guitar student

Will be quitting soon after

Her fingertips start to bruise

But the grizzled old guy

Who only just decided

After losing most of

The flexibility in his

Hands To learn every AC

DC lick ever jammed

Will be at it as long

As his sanity or yours

Holds out Everywhere

And at all times it’s true:

Beauty disappears too soon

While ugly Lasts

Even in the strip club:

The sexy-ass brat swishes

Out the door not long after

She comes to know that

The famous rappers won’t

Be arriving, just the endless

Procession of tragic old

Crackas blowing in with

Whatever crumbs are

Left over after they’ve fed

Their fat wives and

Ungrateful kids because

Beauty makes a beeline

For the exit

And disappears

while

ugly sticks around

And

Lasts and

Lasts

And

Lasts

 

–FB

 

Don’t Feel too Bad for the Fading Beauties

Because you read poetry

And you’re not a psycho

You feel bad for

The fading lady

Whose sagging smile

Made every Hell

A Heaven for a while

Back in her day.

And you feel sad too

When you see the

Solitary stripper

Up there barely

Moving those hips

Because she doesn’t

Have health care

And because her

Aging ass only draws

Pity tips. Feel bad for

Them but not too bad.

You gotta know that

Both the lady and

The dancer spent

Their fresh

Hips and thighs

Smiles and breasts

On psychopathic

Pro-sports fans

Who

Made

Rapist dog

Murderers

Into millionaires,

Rarely if ever

Tipped anybody,

And never

Read poetry.

 

— FB

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

War Prize

Life is warfare,

Just ask Sun Tzu.

And to the victors

Go the best booties.

I’ve been through

Many battles, and

Have won more

Than a few, but I’m

Still struggling to

Win the big booty,

Or big booties, I

Should say. I’ll know

I’ve prevailed when

My nose is ass-deep

In a sumptuously-

Sculpted fresh one

Bending over my

Rented bed in an

Anonymous hotel

Somewhere. I’ll

Inhale the musky-

Sweet scent of

Victory-at-last. And

You, dear reader,

Can help my dream

Come true. So like

And share, far and

Wide. And why not?

I care for homeless

Cats, haven’t killed

Anyone yet, and provide

Free entertainment

To fellow wage slaves

Like you. If trash like

Vick can afford the

Best booty, why shouldn’t

I, or perhaps even

You?

— FB

 

 

 

 

One Blogger Likes This (for Eric Clapton)

Okay okay so I read

Another rock-star

Autobio, this one

By old slowhand

Himself. Yeah I know

He did great work

With Cream, Sunshine

of Your Love and all

That, but truth be told,

Any halfway decent

Blues-rock guitarist

Would have sounded

Great playing with

Ginger Baker and

Jack Bruce, the J.S.

Bach of the bass.

And those stunning

Lyrics were penned

By unknown poets,

Of course.

And really, everything

Original Eric did since

Was pretty lame stuff.

The first line of his

Book nearly put me

Off from reading it:

“Early in my childhood,

When I was about six or

Seven, I began to get the

Feeling that there was

Something different

About me.” Well Eric,

Most of us get that

Felling, so don’t wax

Too special.” But after

That the book got

Pretty good, and I was

Surprised to find that

Clapton was a fan of

Kenneth Patchen. But

As Bukowski wrote, it’s

Possible to like someone

If you don’t know them

Too well. Something like

That. So I wasn’t too shocked

To read that, after earning

Millions, buying cars, and

A barely-legal wife, old

Eric ruined my mostly

Positive view of him. As

He wrote: “…it was pigeons

Roosting in the eaves of our

House (mega mansion), cooing

In the evenings and waking up

The kids at five in the morning,

That tipped the balance. I went

Out and bought a shotgun…

Ethically it was never a problem

For me…” How lovely. Now I’m

A guy who loves peace and sleep,

But the sound of birdsongs never

Bugged me a bit. And even if it

Was an annoyance for his kids,

There had to be a better solution.”

So screw

Eric Clapton. Another “hero”

Bites the dust. But the crowds

Still scream his name in

A stadium near you, while

Robert Johnson died in

Agony as a very young man.

And as for me, who would

Cry for joy to hear the cooing

Of birds instead of blasting

Stereos everywhere, well, I’ll

Be lucky if one Blogger likes

This.

 

— FB

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day After My Birthday

I don’t tell people

I know that my

Birthday is coming.

I don’t tell them

On my birthday

Either. I don’t want

Those few that I know

and care about to spend

Their money, because

They haven’t got much.

But being human, there’s

Always that penlight-sized

Spotlight of hope searching

The dark cave of my life

For something or someone,

Especially on a birthday,

That man-made boundary

In time that intensifies

Our hope for happiness

Or meaning. So I stopped

Down to a strip-spot I used

To visit, after the insane

Job, and after putting in

My earplugs to deaden the

Rap crap and hell metal, I

Spied a baby-faced, black-

Haired angel shaking her

Birthday-big white ass on

The stage. She looked me

Dead in the eyes with a look

That seemed to say that I

Was more than just my

Money. And despite all

The hard-lived lessons of

The past half century,

I began to half-believe,

Because I’m even dumber

On my birthday. So I stuck

A few bucks in her hard-

Pressed garter and said

That I enjoyed her acting

In Twilight 3. At least I

Don’t steal my lines from

Movies. And when her dance

Was done, she sat that birthday-

Sized sweet ass of hers down

Next to me. That and her face

Lit a few candles in my soul

Really. I told her that she looked

Like Lord Byron’s great great great

Etc. granddaughter, and when

That didn’t click, I said descendent

Of Elvis, which worked up a smile

On that cherubic face. Well, she

Shared a few things, like her

Studying to be a yoga instructor,

And I tipped her a five every

Several minutes, but she still

Hit me up for dances pretty

Quick, which I politely declined,

Saying I was enjoying my play-

Date and her luminous beauty

Too much to want to spoil it in

Some dark booth. And then

The light in her eyes dimmed

And her smile clicked off. She

Made an excuse about having

To talk to the “house mom.”

A few minutes later I saw her

And that luminous ass pressed

Against some other half-dead

Fool at the bar, who was

Smiling like it was his damned

Birthday in a universe that

Remembers.

 

— FB

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dead Languages

I gloried in studying Latin

Before the jobs crucified

My concentrative powers.

All those Romans, wine

and togas and black

bangs flowing. All that

Poetry, Dramatic Tragedy,

And those epic orgies. People

who wonder why anyone would

Love a dead Language must

Be braindead not to realise

That all of the great languages

Have been dead for some time:

The language of Romance,

The language of Poetry,

The language of Free Thought,

Even the language of Logic

Itself, though they might

Seem to be alive sometimes,

Like the hot blood flowing

Through Catullus’ lines,

Or the proud look in the

Eyes of a statue of Venus

Or Augustus

Glowing alone and

Unloved in a museum

near you.

But those are only the

Echoes and shadows

Of life. The Romans

Are dead, just as is

The civilization they

Sculpted, sang,

Stabbed and screwed

Towards Olympus,

Dead as the one who 

Writes

These lines.

 

— FB

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Most Never Learn

My father has

Plagued this

Earth for 80

Years now.

Lying, whoring,

Driving away

Everyone he

Claimed to

Love with

His selfish,

Petty, sadistic

Ways. To this

Late day

He calls and

Invites his

Grown

Kids over.

Then before

We can even

Sit, he lights

Up and blows

Cancer stick

Smoke into

Our faces.

Still, he’s

Creeping

Up on the

Grave, so

For a while

I made an

Effort and

Visited him.

The last time

He stood there

In his boxers,

In his kitchen,

Puffing cancer

Into my face,

Then he opened

His voluminous

1980s fridge and

Pointed to a pizza

Box, the only thing

In there, besides a

Carton of milk. The

box held one

Last slice,

The lone leftover

From the pizza I’d

Brought to him and

Shared with him a

Week before. “Hey,

Don’t leave stuff

In my refrigerator,”

He said with his

Gruff, low voice.

Then it hit me.

All week, while

I’d been slaving,

He sat there

Fuming in

His kitchen,

Obsessing on

That pizza box

“Taking up the

Space” in his

Refrigerator.

I thought about

Asking him if

He really wanted

To spend his last

Days that way,

But I’d tried to reach

Him too many times

Over the years. And

The look on his grave

Face told me not to

Even try.

 

— FB