Oh, Baby!

“Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh baby!”

Those are the only audible words,

Heard on the video tape

The rest is just filled,

With random shouts of garble,

And ‘what-to-do’s’

It was my voice, though

And you could hear the intense and sudden rise to panic

She said she had done it,

At least a hundred times

But, just like death,

The blue flame will get everyone,


Blowing fireballs,

From moonshine,

I’m sure will be,

An event,

She would rather forget

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Somedays Vodka Sounds Better Than You

I drink vodka in this bar

That’s what I drink in here

Sometimes it’s gin,

Sometimes rum

But never in here

This place calls for vodka,

And this bar rarely calls

But when she does,

It’s good to start with a vodka tonic

From there the world is my oyster

Vodka martinis finish me off too fast,

So they’re better left for the bad days

Those days when things need to get done,

And I don’t belong in here,

On days like that…

Excuse me,


Make me a vodka martini”

“One of those days, huh?”

Something like that…

Something like that.

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


Spent $41.00 on a bottle of whisky,

Walked home with a light breeze,

And a step which reminded me of rippling waves

The sun was just setting

It’s very rays reduced,

To nothing more than a soft pink glow

The night in front of me,

Still holds promise

So much to look forward to,

So much anticipation and hope

There will be nothing worth while,

clogging up the television,

And knowing that ahead of time,

Will save me from the countless,

Circling of channels, which will offer nothing back

Instead, my speakers will spew musical notes,

Written in the language of jazz

Filling my ears, head and room,

With a glorious and fulfilling sway,

A quick change of tempo,

And a true heartfelt smile

Which no one but me,

Will be granted access to

No one but me,

Will be allowed to share

There will be writings of all different kinds

Some good, some bad,

Some even unreadable

But I will none the less carve my way through,

Conjuring up those mortal tales,

All the while, engulfed in smoke and laughter,

Distant thoughts and fond memories

All brought on by this easy and effortless walk home,

And a well aged, $41.00 bottle of whisky

Well worth every single penny spent

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Nothing Better

I have nothing better to do,

Than sit here all day

Just waste this day,

Like so many before,

And the so very many,

Which will follow

I have nothing better to do

My glass is empty,

And now I wait on the girl,

Behind the bar

I’m held captive,

And need to find a filler

I pilfer glances,

At the two girls sitting,

Next to me

They’re deep in conversation,

And have no way,

Of knowing any better

I compare the two girls’ thighs

I wrestle with which one,

Would be better in bed,

Which one would look better naked

But then,

In an instant,

My drink has been refilled,

And I’m back to doing,

What I came here to do

This is a pretty good life,

Good if you can keep up with it,

And don’t weaken

I’m ok with that

I can work within these rules,

Laws and parameters

And besides,

I have the time

I have lots of it,

And as I finish my drink,

I smile at the boredom,

And at the two girls’ thighs

It’s all good,

I have nothing better to do

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


There is a fly in here with me,

Just me and the fly

He seems to want,

More to do with me,

Than I want with him

He seems interested in the typewriter,

Interested in what I’m drinking,

Interested in the ashtray,

And my burning cigarette

His buzz is also a little too loud

That very buzz has interrupted,

Coltrane’s live version of “Giant Step”

And as the fly lands on the rim of my glass,

Takes a sip of my drink,

And interferes with a sacred live performance,

I realize he is not a friend

He has become nothing more than a mere nuisance

Just another pain in the ass,

In this near empty writer’s room

Like the patron at the bar,

That nobody wants to sit near

Well, now something must be done

In the last five minutes,

This tiny pest has managed to take me,

From writer/drinker/music lover,

And changed me into a hunter

He has also changed, in that small amount of time

Going from useless and benign,

To a “Dead Man (Fly) Walking”

So I roll a new smoke,

Fill a fresh glass,

And calmly fold today’s sports page

The jury is out,

“Death by splatter”, is the verdict

And I wait and listen,

Listen to “Chasin’ The Trane”,

And that ever-present buzz

And then, like the fly knew time was up,

He landed on the center of the desk,

And politely sat motionless

We both took a moment,

Listened to the final notes of the song,

Then I used the roaring applause of the crowd for cover,

And lowered the boom

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Lifting Them

All is good in this world

And as long as no one is dying,

Let’s lift a few

Put them up to our lips,

And hope we make it back alive

Here’s to the future good days,

And to all the bad ones gone

I guess I prefer the here and now,

Over the what could or should have been

Call me an optimist,

It seems everyone else likes to call me a cynic

Well, fuck ’em

Let them rot and roll in their graves

And to all of those retched souls,

I lift one

Just because I’m still here,

And they’re not

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

My Own Private Bit Of Hell

This day is drawing to a close

This hike has been long

The scorched earth continues to beat on me

I’ve finished all my wine,

And almost all the water, too

But as hot as it may be,

That’s part of the draw

A force acting mutually between particles of matter

Which, matter of fact

Also acts to draw them together

And to resist this separation
Is useless at best
For all of this is done out of love
A want,
A need,
And a desire to be here
This tiny spot of hell,
Found so very close to my home,
Fills the airs with heat and dust
And all the love
I could possibly give
© Dicky J Loweman 2015


Cheers, Alice

Pay up, then head through the door,

With that same vodka tonic in hand

I walk back towards my house,

Knowing exactly where I can find that soul

Who is much more deserving and in need,

Of this last drink of the night

And I find her right where I thought she would be,

With the same sign, asking for money or food

I offer her the drink,

Which she takes with uncertainty and hesitation

I get the feeling,

from the look in her eye,

That this doesn’t happen all the time

I tell her my name,

And she tells me hers

Alice, she says, through cracked and sunburned lips

Pleased to meet you

We chatted for a short bit,

Then I went on home

I felt pretty good with the end to the evening

Sometimes people just need a break,

A bit of luck,

A ray of sunshine

And sometime that luck of light,

Can shine in the darkest hours,

Of a usually unforgiving night

© Dicky J Loweman 2015




A Drink On The Farm

All the people in this bar have faces like barnyard animals

The sheep gather by the pool table,

Baa-baaing through all the games

The horses gather at the jukebox,

Standing still, talking quietly —

Mine as well be eating grass

The bar itself is over-run by the cows

Too lethargic from the drinks and sun

And the bartender is the farmer,

Making sure all the barnyard animals

Get fed and watered,

Stay fat, full and happy

As far as me?

I’m not quite sure which animal I am

Sometimes I feel like a fox,

In the henhouse,

When the farmer left the door open

Sometimes I feel like a goat,

Half dumb and staring at the knots in the bar

Sometimes I feel like the barnyard dog,

Moving around,

Here and there,

Making sure everyone is accounted for,

And the wolves are kept at bay

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Perfect End

There are different shades of greys

Ranging from charcoal to dust

There are cracks along the way

Climbing up the walls,

Running through the sidewalks

There is a constant heavy sigh,

A slight moan and groan

The bustle of this city

Seems monotonic and mundane

People focus on cell phones and their shoes

And no one glances up,

To read anyone’s eyes,

Or to match a smile with their own

Stale airs and old trash

Tucked away and fill the corners

The same corners they walk past


Without a conscience, without pause

The world rotates at 1000 mph

But it’s much slower, here

Much more impersonal,

Selectively savage, heartless and cold

It’s always good times, somewhere in this world

And that includes 5:00, somewhere

Time to brighten the greys,

Fill in the cracks

And forget all these plagued souls

A quick stroll to the beach cafe,

A stroll by the bar

Grab and go,

Head to the water’s edge

Where the waves sing in harmonies,

Which would make the Gregorian Chants

Seem out of tune

I listen to the winds and the gulls,

As I watch the sun die another perfect death

And at that very moment all is forgiven, forgotten,

All troubles slip and disappear,

Like the smoke from my cigarette

© Dicky J Loweman 2015