The Fat Sounds He Made

One of the best pleasures

a sensitive human being

can have in this realm

is to luxuriate in the sound

of Andres Segovia

pressing his fat, sausage-

shaped fingers into and

against the nylon strings

of a classical guitar.

Segovia (1893-1987)

rescued the guitar

from the “noisy fingers”

of Flamenco players

in his native Spain,

and he brought

the guitar to the

concert stage

and the music of

Bach, Schumann,

and other supreme

spinners of heart-tearing

soul-healing melodies.

I’ve listened to packs

of classically-trained

guitarists since Segovia

passed, but not one of

them comes close to

the sounds he made,

especially when he’d

play a chord, which

then died away,

except for one lone

note, which he rocked

back and forth with

a sausage-shaped

finger in his


romantic way.

So much so that

many modern

classical guitarists

now mock his

style as “sentimental.”


But what they fail

to undertand is

that in music as

in life, it often

comes down to

that one person

one moment

one note


long after

the others





— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie


They Say Edgar Allan Poe Had it Bad

They say Edgar Allan Poe Had it Bad


And in some respects he did:

orphaned as a kid, and then let down

by his rich philistine foster dad,

and then there’s the living hell

of living with a poetic soul

in a decidedly unpoetic world.

But it’s just as true to say that

the man who lived “The Raven”

was extraordinarily blessed as well–

and probably more so than me or you:

despite what the hypocritical haters say

(because they know neither talent nor truth),

despite greedy publishers, and mediocre readers,

and his own inability to hold his drink,

Fate gifted Poe with the perfect wife:

cherubic, feminine, devoted and loving

and unlike most “enlightened” victims today,

Virginia married a great poet who Loved her

before the world could make her its whore.

And if you’re still not convinced

(because you’re a brainwashed, unnatural,

PC bore), I’ll leave you with some stanzas

she wrote to her “Eddy” (and lived to the fullest)

before Death whispered “Nevermore”:

“Ever with thee I wish to roam—

Dearest my life is thine.

Give me a cottage for my home

And a rich old cypress vine,

Removed from the world with its sin and care

And the tattling of many tongues.

Love alone shall guide when we are there—

Love shall heal my weakened lungs;

And Oh, the tranquil hours we’ll spend,

Never wishing that others may see!

Perfect ease we’ll enjoy, without thinking to lend

Ourselves to the world and its glee—

Ever peaceful and blissful we’ll be.”