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


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

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


Tonight Is One Of Those Nights

I sit at this computer

Filling lines with useless words

Some days/nights I can write a lot

But nights like this, tend to get me down

I fill line after line

Write word after word

But in the end,

After all the typing,

I haven’t created anything I like

This, to me, is worse than

Having written nothing at all

Be it from writers block or laziness

At least I can lie to myself with those

Convincing myself that all those words

Would have been good,

If only I had typed them out

It’s a simple lie,

And I’d buy it

But, no

Instead, I’ve got lines

After miserable lines

Filled with nothing truthful

Nothing of interest

Not a thing I like

It’s times like this

When a drink is required

Tonight is one of those nights

I’ll take mine straight

And make it a double

© Dicky J Loweman 2015

Thursdays, At The Hill

On Thursdays I like to drink at a bar called The Hill

The crowd is mostly mellow, keeps to themselves

I can catch a couple of drinks

And write by myself, usually uninterrupted

I find this bar to be full of ideas

I can watch the small details

Take note of the surroundings

Like I’m not even there

Like a fly on the wall

A spy, an apparition

Like a soft breeze, not strong enough to draw attention

When I’m done, I leave

There is no “goodbye”, no “see ya soon”, no “thanks for coming”

And I slip out, unnoticed

Small and irrelevant

Just the way I like it

And Thursdays are almost always

Pretty good days

© Dicky J Loweman 2015


Updating The Scars

All the red slashes and markings look to me like scars

Because they are here, forever and ever

Coded into these pages, tucked away and longing for a return

All these pages should be in another place

Not this makeshift database query

Not this database query, because of its size

The vastness, the hugeness of it all

It’s mesmerizing, overflowing, and makes me slightly nervous

I have trouble looking at it, straight in the eyes

I can do it, I do do it

But it takes a lot

Patience, bravery, or maybe just stupidity and some rum

All this for something that so rarely changes

Something which takes on no new shapes

And it never speaks of what it would like to see happen

What it would like to become, hopes to become

Come to think of it, I also have no idea of what this will become

I’m going through all these old manuscripts, at the moment

This one goes with this one

This one belongs over here

No, no that’s not right, so over here it’s moved

I’m finding there are more than a few that are incorrectly marked

Some with no titles, many which make no sense

These are the works, the sweat, the love, the time invested

This is my work, although it’s been more like a job, as of late

And everybody needs a weekend, a stop, a brake

Maybe a vacation

I’ve written of Paris, all because of a dream

It’s just a place, and although beautiful, I’m sure

It would soon look the same

The same as New York, Los Angeles, Miami

Places I’ve been to, lived in, and left

Truly, I think I would rather be shacked up in eastern France

Alone with a typing machine, and my back against the Alps

Or maybe in the south of France

The Mediterranean, maybe Cannes, Marseille

Or, better yet, Saint-Tropez

Or maybe I scrap France altogether

And just hide away in Monaco

Writing, drinking fine wines

And watching all the expensive boats that pass

Just dreams about dreams, tucked away within a dream

Not a dream of color

Rather, just random black and white musings

And so, “tous les bons rêves doivent prendre fin”

If that’s even right, I don’t know

I don’t speak French

Yet, here I still sit

Finding more and more correctly and incorrectly marked manuscripts

Drowning in the sea

I open a bottle of rum, if only to slow this speeding mind

I suppose I’m doing the best I can

We are all doing our best

And I have come to accept

That your best is better than my best

Still, all the red slashes and markings on these pages

Look like scars to me

I have hard-coded scars, in various parts of my brain

And I can’t seem to find an end

And I’m not at all sure

That there was ever meant to be an updating

An ending to the end

© Dicky J Loweman 2015



Old piece of paper

Seen in the typeroll

May just be words, alone to you

But, to me

They are so much more

They tell of good times

They tell of the bad

Of days and nights

Long ago, but also not far away

They speak of truths I can’t say

And spill out imagination

I otherwise wouldn’t have

Just a piece of old paper, to you

The whole world to me

© Dicky J Loweman 2015