Dear Mailman

Dear mailman, postal carrier, deliverer of mail, over-stuffing mailbox fuck, whatever it is you’re         called these days:

Please stop filling my mailbox with all this useless crap.  I didn’t ask for it, nor do I want it.  I have no “plus size” ladies living with me, so I have no further need for their catalogs.  Nevermind all the political jargon.  I already know who I’ll vote for.  And the coupons.  Stop with all the fucking coupons.  I never once opened one of your Valu-Paks.  Somewhere there’s a tree which could have been saved.

Also take note, please, as to the size of my mailbox.  miniscule in stature.  Last Wednesday you lovingly jammed all my mail and four catalogs in there.  That’s a feat unto itself.  That’s a quality I wish you would lose.  I successfully scraped each knuckle on my right hand, and didn’t come away with even half of my mail.

Now, please don’t get me wrong.  I appreciate all you do for me.  God knows I would lose sleep, if you didn’t bring me all those bills to pay.  And every year, at Christmas time, I leave you a nice “thank you” card, complete with a fresh and crisp Jackson.  So humor me, and stop all of this madness.


Dicky J Loweman

p.s.  On a positive note, just think how much lighter your haul would be.  That’s less to carry around and more room for your vodka I see you pouring, when you think no one’s watching.

Number 5 from Muses and Other Gauche Thoughts


Mascara Stained Cheeks

She grabbed the toilet at the base, arched her back, and proceeded to throw up with such an aftershock that the ground beneath me shook.  I was in complete awe of this sudden terror, when she looked up at me, with mascara stained cheeks, and proclaimed to now be just fine.

© Dicky J Loweman 2014


Today is a Friday.  Last day of the week to find work.  I rummage through want ads, circling those which are conducive to my lifestyle.  I eat, shower and dress.  I smile at myself for looking this well-groomed.  I grab my keys, but stop at the door.  I go back to the kitchen and pour a stong drink.  No sense in going now.  No one will hire a guy who’s been drinking.  Well, there’s always Monday.

© Dicky J Loweman 2014