Big Ron

Ron was a big man

About 6’4″, 265

Ron had to be one of the ugliest human beings, ever

He lived in a trailer at the north end of town

Away from the people and noise and the pace

I can’t remember how or where I first met him

But once you meet him, you never forget him

Ron grew up in the backwoods of West Virginia

Mined his own coal for winter fires

And now he works the railroads out here

He run the lines,

Keeps them clean

Between Montana and Nebraska

Ron was born with sledgehammers for fists

Driving those spikes home

And punishing anyone who’d get in his way

He lives like a slob

Like a hobo in an alley

But he launders his button down shirts,

Likes his sleeves with a crease

Ron drinks his gin straight

straight from the bottle

He tells people, that life is too fast

For things like glasses and wives

Ron burned through his first wife in five years

His second, only took three

He’s onto his third, now

Knee-deep and two years running

Ron says it won’t last the rest of this year

But he doesn’t seem the least bit concerned

He like his girls heavy and ugly

And says he can always find more

And he always had one around

Yeah, that’s true

This world is full of ugly people

People to take advantage of

People to be preyed upon

Ron likes to have a girl around

Someone to take care of

Ron also likes to lose money

Likes betting on the dogs at the track

He might not be good at it

But, then again

To be good at something

Takes time

So, big Ron loves his life,

He loves drinking gin straight

From the bottle

He likes to fight

And lose money at the track

And aside from this trailer,

And the railroad,

I don’t think big Ron has much in this world

It’s 9 am

And he takes a rip from a bottle, of shit gin

He looks at me, through weathered eyes

And he says “What’s wrong with this world?”

Ron never gives me a second to answer

Quickly tipping the bottle, again

No time for an answer,

And none for a pause

Not long enough to consider

It might have started and ended

With him

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

How Would You Do It?

Often, while bored

I think of all the people

In this world,

Who truly despise me

The people who

Would love to hear that

I have died,

Passed on,

Kicked the proverbial bucket

I drift back and think of all the ways

I have bothered these people

These same people

Who, countless times

Have bothered me, too

I often think it would be fun

To sit these people down

And ask each one

The same question

“If you could get away with killing me, how would you do it?”

I know this isn’t ‘normal’ thought pattern,

But what the hell?

It brings me to a full smile

Especially when I think

Of all their creative ways

I imagine some people

Would want to kill me

Some more than once, I bet

I mean, with all the options

Only having one shot at it,

Kind of seems

Like a ripoff

But that’s when the smile leaves

because there is always a follow-up thought

And this one, I don’t much care for

It’s the thought

Of those few people

Who wouldn’t want to tell me

Their ideal way of

polishing me off

When I think of these few people,

I’m no longer smiling

And the reason is simple

These are the few people,

I believe,

Who have a real desire

To get rid of me

And that scares me

More than the dying part

Because one of those faces

Of the people who truly hate me

Might be the last face I see

And that alone

Is a reason to mix a drink

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Deep End Of The Ocean

And I

Watched you

As you slowly sank down

Dragged to the bottom, so dark

And I

Did nothing

To help


And You

Looked back

Up to me, but said nothing

Just held out both your hands

But still,

So silent

So dark


And I

Turned away

Not wanting to see the end,

The disappearing act, as you slipped

Deeper down

As I

Did nothing

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


And there was nothing left to do

But burn the whole place down

We ate all the food

Drank all the drinks

And stole everything worth taking

We left a few things, too

Like stains on the carpet

Holes in most of the walls

Kicked in the doors

And broke any remaining windows

Like a chinook from the mountain

Blowing through at 80 mph

Causing temperatures to rise

Swearing and laughing

Screaming and banging

And just like that

It was over

Over, in a heartbeat

We left it for dead

After the great rape

Pillaged and plundered

And ass-kicked

In every conceivable way

Except, in all of the excitement

We forgot to burn it down

Lazy bastards, we were

We had forgotten

The reason we came there

In the first place

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

My Lover, The Thief

She had style and beauty

She walked with her head high

She liked who she was

And so did I, at least at first

She had no job

Never seemed to need one

She had money, when she needed

She was by no means rich, but she got by

I met her in my favorite bar

We shared drinks and laughs

She had a dark sense of humor

And I fall for this

Every time

We came home one night

We had a nightcap

And got ready for bed

I finished brushing my teeth

And upon returning to the bedroom

Found her organizing a handful of bills

A quick glance, she held maybe fifty bucks

I asked her where it came from

I paid for all the drinks

She said she didn’t have any cash with her

She told me how she lifted a wallet off the guy next to her

She told me she stole it

Fair and square

I asked her how she would feel, if he had done that to her

She laughed it off

She was smug

She seemed proud

She told me this is how the real world works

I haven’t seen the whole world

But, I’m older than her

And I know I’ve seen more of it than she has

So I asked her, again

How would she feel

If someone took all her money, from her

Again, she laughed me off

I didn’t sleep well that night

She slept like a baby

Just like she always did

No heavy thoughts

Nothing resting against her conscience

I finally got up

After acknowledging that I won’t sleep, anymore

I moved about the house

I clean up the clothes I threw off, the night before

And think about the money, still in the pocket of her jeans

I make coffee and read the paper

And after I’ve had enough

I wake her

I force her out of bed

I throw her clothes at her

And I hurry her into dressing

In the same panties, jeans and sweatshirt

She wore the night before

I tell her we’re late

We’re going to a cafe

I told her how I had made plans to meet a friend

And I lost track of time

She’s still half asleep

Only going through the motions of getting up

She was either in a really deep sleep

Or still drunk

Maybe both, but I don’t give either of us time

For any answers

I hurry her to the car

She tells me, as we back out of the drive

How she didn’t brush her teeth

And she asks again, as to where we’re going

She doesn’t really care, so I don’t answer her

I drive her to the cafe

On the opposite side of town

A good jaunt from my house

And even further from her apartment

I stop the car in front of the Sunrise Cafe

I ask her to get out and go grab us a table

I tell her I’ll park the car and be in soon

She does as she’s told

Although, still groggy and slightly disgruntled

She mumbles something about needing a cigarette and coffee

And heads to the entrance

I move the car around the corner

Stopping in the middle of the street

Where I reach into my pocket

And pull out my phone

It’s too early to call anybody, but David will understand

And after several rings, he picks up the phone

I tell him that I need to see him

How I’m on my way

And he reluctantly agrees

When he asks what this is all about

My thoughts drift

I think about how last night, misfortune kissed David

How he did nothing wrong

Except he chose the wrong seat at the bar

I answer him, by telling him I have a gift

Something he will enjoy

Something to brighten his day

Meanwhile, as I head to his house

I think of her

Waiting at the Sunrise Cafe

With no smokes

And without me

As I wait at a red light

I reach into my other pocket

I pull out $54.00

$54.00 of David’s money

The same money

Which will soon be in his hands

Payback is a bitch

Just like her

My lover

The thief

I smile, a big smile

As I think of her holding the bill

With no cigarette to smoke

No way to get home

No more nights at my favorite bar

And no money

To pay for the coffee she bought

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Alley Stroll

There’s an alley, by the bar I frequent

It’s a vile run, but it saves me time

The street is awash in filth

Trashcans, rats, and sometime a bum or two

Smears of ooze from the trash

And a lingering smell of everything from this place

Discarded liquor bottles and half eaten meals

Which are always covered with maggots, roaches or ants

There’s cigarette butts everywhere

Who would seek this place out to smoke?

Hardly seems like a place to take a break

It’s always dark back here, too

The buildings block most of the sun

And the dampness never goes away

If there are really any lights back here, none of them work

It makes for an uncomfortable walk home at night

And it has to be on a registry of “the windiest places in town”

It truly holds the title of “wind cave”

But it’s the time it saves me

The corners I cut and the lessening of steps I have to take

Which make me thankful for this alley

And I think of it that way

Every time I walk though here

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


Public Service Announcement

As the killing season gets into full swing

The poets are becoming oh so more aggressive

Here’s what the literary behemoths want you to know

A simple set of rules to avoid becoming a victim

–This very season brings out the nastiness from the writing artist

–This timely increase is not an isolated affair

–It is certainly not confined to a specific geographical area

This has been a public service announcement

Thought you’d like to know

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


Number 3 from Scourge

She Demands I Write For Her

So I am to write

So to your fare

So to your good looks, beauty

So shut me out

Do it, again

Sloppy writing

So as I am writing

You will be happy

Yeah, this is me

So let’s move on

Forge ahead

So you can read into this

Take out what you will

Believe it to be about your beauty

When, in reality

This was written about nothing

Nothing, nothing at all

© Dicky J Loweman 2015