poet

You Know Who You Are

To me, this life grows thinner

All the auto mechanics, page-boys and school girls

Can’t and won’t fill it up

Stop with all the love poems

Stop by with a shot

I’ll take it

Like a bullet

Hope to see you soon

That same spot on the shore

It’s calling us, again

And all the doctors in the world

Can’t put me back together

Again

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

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The Parts They Will Remember

When I lie dead

What will they remember?

My cold heart?

My carelessness and carefree ways?

I doubt that

Those who will remember me, at all

Will remember the smiles

Those of mine, and those I brought

The smiles and the many written lines

Which often meant more to me than to them

I will be remembered as a giver

Often giving more than I had

They say this is a character flaw

I’d say that’s right

But, in the end

That’s just me

And I can’t (and won’t) speak for them

I hope some of these many interactions

Have sat well, with them

© D J Loweman 2015

 

 

Houdini Was A Bullshit Artist

Houdini was a bullshit artist

Tricks and smoke and mirrors and a tinge of luck

But luck runs only in spurts

It’s a sprint

Never staying with you

For the long haul

So, while tanks of water

Chains and padlocks

Couldn’t tame the great Houdini

One slow punch to the gut

Was quick enough

A sprint or spurt in time

To send him to a long sleep

Resting forever

Next to his luck

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

 

 

What She Left

She came by around four

She was an old friend from high school

We had drinks and canapés

We laughed a lot

Things began to get cloudy

Maybe too many cocktails

Maybe I was just enjoying it too much

We wrapped it up about seven

She was going to meet her mother for dinner

She used the restroom, we exchanged good-byes

We made plans to do it again next week

She kissed me goodnight on my cheek and then she left

I was feeling very satisfied by the entire afternoon

And started to think of our next date

That’s when I noticed

A most strange and perplexing observation

As I walked into the bathroom she had used

I took note

She left the seat up?

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Call It Quits

Think I’ll call it quits for the day

I’ve already written thirteen pieces this morning

It’s only 10:10 am

But I’m tired

I feel like I’ve already put in a full days worth

Such a tough life

Not a thing to complain about

But I still find ways

So I think I’ll call it quits for today

I’m all dried up

Out of ideas

And at this point I’m only writing

The very thoughts I’m thinking

More like exercise than writing

It isn’t very much fun

And that’s supposedly why I do this

So I think I’ll call it quits

This write isn’t any good, anyhow

Now I feel bad

For wasting the time of both of us

Yeah, it’s time to call it quits

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Always Another Ass For The Chair

I play with the tobacco on the end of my tongue

I stream smoke from my nose, like a midieval dragon

Holding all the castle’s people my hostage

It’s late — about 3:30 am, but I’m not the least bit tired

I feel full of ideas

But there isn’t a computer, typewriter or pen and paper near by

So I will let these thoughts fly by

Quietly losing my next great poem

I don’t really care though

Just like a piece of ass

Who grows tired of me, and leaves

It’s ok

There’s more fish… Yeah, yeah, yeah

I laugh out loud at myself

Boy, the things this old mind thinks up

I try to remember that great poem, but it’s already gone

No worries, no love lost

There’s always another ass for the chair

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

 

Pissing Bliss

I’m not at all against wasting an entire night

Insomnia aside, I like the nighttime best

I can easily plan for future days or think about nothing at all

I find, generally, I worry less

And I’m good with that

I have a soothing concert playing on the iPad

Miles Davis in Paris, 1967

Now that’s a good fucking show

I have a fresh rocks glass

Filled with ice and some J & B

I also have a new South American tobacco

Just picked it up today

It’s a fine smoke

Warm trumpet, a warming scotch and smokes

This is a mathematical equation

Trumpet + scotch + smoke = Bliss

Yeah, right now I’m pissing bliss

And I believe, this is about as happy as I can get

© Dicky J Loweman 2015