I can't see where I'm going. I’ve never been there before. I think I’ll walk in the forest. I think I'll open up that door. I can't see where I'm going. I’ve never been here before. I think I'll hike the forest. I'll open up that door. ‘Walk atop the ocean, ‘Nothing religious here, ‘Going to grab myself a quart of bourbon— Mix it with some beer. ‘Throw it in the freezer— Wait 500 years— Nothing to do Nothing to say Nothing else here. I can’t see where I'm going. I’ve never been here before I think I’ll look in the mirror— Trying to score. I think I'll try to see Why God put me here, Why God put you here, Why God put us there . There’s no reason to repeat, Other people's words. Other people's wishes— They're all so absurd. ‘Never see others. Never see yourself. Only seek love. ‘A book upon a shelf. [BRIDGE] [-Elusive-] ‘Don't understand which way the wind is blowing… Why the sky is green… Why the mountains dip, And the water is dry and clean… When the moon is shining down the valley true… Pretzel’s salty dipped in peanut butter too. [Instrumental interlude to ease back into…] ‘Don't see where I'm going. ‘Never been there before. ‘Think I’ll start with my cupboards— ‘Never cleaned them before. ‘Clear my entire dresser Of clothes I never wear, Like aftershave lotion, The bourbon on the bear. [Next two Stanzas Double Time] Under the sink there's dirty stuff— all sorts of dirty grime. I haven't cleaned that dungeon since Nixon's time. I don't know nothing about the ‘net and email’s foreign to me. If you want to communicate knock on my door I'll be. These people talking about downloads and uploads makes no sense. How'd you get this album? Thanks, it pays my rent. Just “Like”, “Follow” and “Subscribe”— I don't understand what I say, My agent tells me to put those words in and tag and tag away. [If jamming; Solo or Two] I don't know where I'm going. I've never been here before. I climb up to the top of this building Trying to score. She smiles my way, I frown, He looks my way I look down, I don't see where I'm going anymore.
Sanitize Mask Up Keep 6 Feet Away
Still some citizens dine at their spots, While other workers, by dollar’s pots And land scribers ordinances lest we forgot Tempest long ago tossed. Give me your sick, your dying, your queer, Our hair still waves freely, uncovered our ear, The buildings and stores all seem to keep clear Liquid on hand to appease. Masses still cook traba and limpia, Our economy hangs on still no one do say, How long the masks must be worn on our fray To keep doctors relaxing at home. Taxis haul people and covered cargo, A final destination that no one do know, As postal corporations keep us all going slow So no one becomes too afraid. A fine day at the beach is had by us all. President’s rhetoric impales by the pall. Parks and museums still not quite fall. The highways, some close, a momentary mall. Online commerce, hardly a crawl. We stay between sheets between the four walls Of homes some believe keep them safe.
The Lovely Looters
I wrote this piece in a virtual poetry salon I am currently attending. The prompt for this was to write a poem of praise for an unlikely group of people (aka people who’ve had a bum rap or may have been stigmatized). The prompt was adapted from the Poet's Companion, by Addonizio & Laux © 1997, Page 241. I am pleased with the result, although not terribly certain I agree with it in its entirety. I look forward to your comments, Lewis
the lovely looters
Our socks are dirty. Yeah, gasoline’ll do that. That glass is shattered Was it a rock or a baseball bat? We’re black-painted looters who justifiably explore Laid waste treasures Underneath certain doors. Knives, and ropes and bombs Made from detritus found— Leftovers from a country We no longer feel bound. We leave our last beliefs We heed the righteous calls Of loves gone before From patriotic falls. We’re looters— brave, brazen, bold, Confronting lawless rule, not worrying, not scurrying, We defy. We duel! Is it because we're on the fringe And have nothing left to lose? Or half homeless? Half derelict? Halfway to our noose? No! We fight because to not Is to give in to their lie. "People go home." We will not: We would rather die Than fall victim to your ways. We are demanding that our rights be honored on this day! That which we truly steal Is attention on this night. “You go back home, indoors!” We will stay right here! Our safety, like yours— You may command but we have grace— Is numbers. We don’t fear. They don't hear our pleas. They ignore the law. It is always that simple. We're tired and hungry and raw. Let us linger longer. Let us lift fists raised stronger. Let us march— no, protest to wrongful policies. Let them lacerate our lovely bodies. When we cannot breathe, by your say, Our hatred will sustain us and cleanse your way We won’t lay aside and let another human pass. If looting grabs attention, let the looting last.
A Striking Resemblance
Walking about recently I noticed a striking resemblance between plywood covered store fronts and masked people. "A Striking Resemblance" takes that concept as inspiration from which to expand into a melancholy what-if scenario. Additionally, HERE you can enjoy the video where I read this piece MOMENTS after I finished writing it for a special raw-unedited rendering! I look forward to your comments.
A Striking Resemblance
They would have been getting home about now. The youngest with her weight in books, walking like a character out of Frankenstein. The quiet boy, eyes bright, lost in last class’ lecture. And our college-bound star, running in, dropping off her books, grabbing a juice and driving off. I would have shown a few sites, said hi to that funny clerk that always calls me “Bub” when I ask for the Times, stopped for a snack at that market we met at, and arrived myself, about fifteen minutes ago. She’d have entered soon thereafter, we’d have been buzzing with excitement, tales of our days written on our faces, cupboards half ajar. She'd have tossed her day bag on the sofa, her coat atop, her purse at me and smiled. I’d let it drop— I always have, why shouldn’t today have been any different? All of us have been home for more than two months now. The youngest just finished another “graphic novel”. There’s no way to tell our quiet thinker that the reason his chair is uncomfortable as of late is because he hasn’t eaten in several hours— no, he’s lost in a marathon of lectures, we think currently he’s listening to a discussion about Solar System Sightings and Soundness of Self, but we’re not all that certain. The senior has been running in place even longer, weeks it seems, but at least she hasn’t gained any weight, better than the rest of us. I read some of the report I was sent, went out for some groceries and saw a striking resemblance between plywooded stores and masked people, didn’t even go into that local market— the one we call “ours”— couldn’t, forgot my mask, and quickly returned home without procuring any sustenance as planned when noticing how long the lines were, but mostly idly flipped through old yearbooks remembering when. Now she meets me in the kitchen. She grabs a frozen something, I, a can or two… We’re mechanical. A meal is created.
Another Wasted Daydram
For some reason this poem, which I wrote summer 2011, has been floating around in my head lately. Perhaps it’s the ease of travel referenced? Maybe the SF imagery? Or perhaps the retrospective tone of the last verse, as a calming influence, standing especially poignant during this "unprecedented" time is the reason this poem keeps pulling at me…
Oh, and I just posted up a recent reading of it on YouTube. Click HERE to watch! Thanks for reading, enjoy!
Another Wasted Daydream
Another wasted daydream Forty thousand's pay scheme Take the 'car to the new job Same 'ol boss— a big fat slob I'd rather have you pay me To spray paint my poetry Across the bay Save me, won’t you foggy days Bike on up to the Golden Gate, Catch some rays, escape. Another wasted math class Teacher's great & I will pass Summer session goes by too fast To comprehend this logarithmic crap Wish I got paid to write & smile Stay awhile Till my flight takes me away Bike on up to the Golden Gate, Catch some rays, escape. I never thought I'd be... Thirty Thousand miles from where I— Shoveled snow for free. Look around and try to find some- Thing for me to be A new definition of myself which will help me— To breathe free I'd rather not have to work for another's pay ever again! I think I'll keep on writing. Explaining myself with words helps me &- Keeps me exited. All though as of now it is only an Avocation. I still gotta bus & clear for me to earn my vacation But someday soon, my visions swoon, My daydreams croon My desires take me away Bike on up to the Golden Gate, Catch some rays, escape.
The Q-Zone
I'm in the Q-Zone. I've never felt so not-all-alone. I'm on video chats with my friends all day. I simply have no time to go out and play. This quarantine affords me no alone-time in my house. I don't even have time to clean out the mouse That keeps me company. But seriously, there's simply no time for me. Am I serious? Do I jest? Do I waste meaning, to rhyme the rest? Do I make puns to pass the day? Do I clean, and clean, and clean and pray? Do I queue-up in the hopes of hording multitudes of supplies? Is that the only ‘Q’ in the title, “Q-Zone”, that applies? Does this maybe sound like the Grinch's creator? Can't I save all this washing and cleaning and sanitizing for later? That's it I'm done, this poem's through, I'm stepping out. I'm searching for you! I'm coming real close— under six feet. I'll caress your neck and whisper real sweet. I'll stare as your scare runs you away. I'll chase you and grab you and carry you away. I'll slap your thighs, and graze your legs, Or I'll just fry up some sausage, scramble some eggs— Clean up the stove when I am through— Wash my hands, like all of you... Go to sleep, tired again, Then log off, log on, log off, then on— to find my friends.
Leap Day Poem
Made on the spot. Made on this day. Barely edited– Yeah, I'm good that way. Once per four years. Once per four rounds. Leap through pages– This day is found!
The San Francisco Side Step
I step over politics several times each week. Tripping over needles— Round and round we go. Stuck in a track, Skipping beats, Shuffling through— Watching our feet. I step over politics several times each week. Listening to the streets— Indoors I sleep— I've never known that cold, The heat 'round a burnt out bowl, That ache which fills your soul. Another line... I'll end with "whole." I step over politics several times each day. The stakes are laid out— Often I'll say, Or rather, think is more apt, Disgusting. Intolerable. For shame. This usually occurs at the end of a day. But I'll just go home. While they go away.
Holy Guy, The Origin Story.
The way I got my phone number is as follows... When I went in to get my cell phone plan (my first cell phone number) back in 2003 the company I got it with, which is the same company that I use today, was a lot smaller than they are currently. What they were advertising in 2003, which was not the industry norm, "Nationwide Local Calling Area" greatly attracted me to that phone company. Since I was so fascinated with that aspect of the plan I asked the salesman setting up my plan, "Since the nation is my local calling area may I get any area code possible?" After a pensive moment he responded, "yeah I guess so... I don't see why not. What area code would you like?" I told him I would like area code 415, to which he, visibly frustrated, spurted out, "Why did you ask if you can have any area code if you only want 415?" I responded, "I just wanted to know if it was possible." He shook his head in bewilderment. Recalling, how a friend at that time had the phone number (415) Money-42, I thought wouldn't it be cool if my phone number spelled out something? I asked him if I could have any phone number in the 415 area code. He told me that not all the numbers were available but many numbers available that start with the exchanges, 444 & 465 were. The first number that I asked him to check for availability was (415) Fly-Dude, a 465 number... It wasn't. (I didn't ask for the obvious (415) 444-4444.) Fly Dude was taken. I then asked for (415) Holy-Guy, and the rest is history... FOOTNOTE I: After the salesman said that (415) Holy-Guy was available I asked if another number was available so that I could have decided which one I wanted. He responded, even more frustrated this time, "No (415) 465-9489 is your number." Also, for the first year or so I didn't even know my own phone number! I just knew it as (415) Holy-Guy. I didn't know (or have memorized) the actual numbers! And nor did my father. We would often times joke about how neither one of us knew my phone number. We only knew it as spelling out Holy Guy. Now with the smartphone it's possible to type in (415) Holy-Guy into a text field, copy it, and then paste it in the telephone app of the smartphone, and when dial is tapped my number will be dialed... That's pretty cool! FOOTNOTE II: Again I stress that they were a very young cell phone company at that time, back in 2003, and so when I asked for this request, it was readily made available to me, and furthermore at no additional charge. FOOTNOTE III: When I got my landline phone number a few years later, in San Francisco, (there was a great deal I'm still making use of which is a local calling number through a local landline provider costing less than $6 a month if I don't use it all that much for outgoing calls.) I asked for (415) 563-4LEW. (Only the 563 exchange was made available to me.) There was a one-time $9 fee, which I figured was totally worth it. End of FOOTNOTES Moving forward in 2020... I would imagine that with most telephone companies it is possible to request a specific number, however, I would also imagine that a one time fee would probably accrue. And one might have to ask them what exchanges to start with, in my instance the 444, 465 & 563 exchanges were the ones that were.
Thanksgiving
I wrote this a few years ago as a goofy Facebook Post.
Enjoy!
Thanksgiving
Turkey, turkey, turkey,
Gobble it on down.
Throw some brisket at your niece
Watch your sister frown.
Toss some wine up in the air—
Watch as Grandma smiles.
For she's glad the housekeeper,
Hasn't shown a while.
Holly Would
Inspired by Jackie Green’s recent Hardly Strictly Bluegrass set; specifically, “Hollywood”
HOLLY WOULD
Holly would if she do Workin' that beat, gettin' her through. Nine to five at K-mart, or is it Walgreens? Spotify ain't helpin' Neither is– She ain't been clean. Hollywood-Holly dreams of success, Yet her red/blue stains up -n- down her dress & lasagna teeth, all upping her mess Won't conceal her Topeka roots. Holly, "would", she cries at night To Rolando– third shift manager, "all right, I'll be there in five." To the winos at the Dive, To her Topeka Crew, Yellin's long past overdue, Her parents on the ranch still all alone– No angst can conceal they're still all alone Been so for years... Hollywood-Holly dreams of making it big under those southern hilly lights. Yet Target don't pay & Amazon's wage is under seize And the streets never close. Holly knows that dress will earn her a quart of bourbon, a Domino's pie and another night's stay at the Knights Inn. And Knights Inn Wi-Fi works, the sheets are clean, and the Johns always pay. –BRIDGE– Holly would arrive at nine the next day, She tells Rolando to put her down for the day But Rolando knows Holly's true scene So he don't tell Sue, the manager of the day. -[If Jamming]- -SECOND BRIDGE- When day breaks the reds of Walgreens welcomes Holly For a carton of reds, a three-pack of single wraps and leaves Holly alone with her change.
Work
(A love poem to my favorite job of all time– Andolini's)
[I worked at Ando's 1998-1999 in Charleston SC.]
…And yes, I am being serious. In my own twisted way, after this piece was published I learned that in fact, it actually is a love poem honoring one of my most fulfilling jobs ever!
WORK -LB (Feb 2019)
And then tie your apron and then smile at Mrs. Rosetti— she owns the butcher shop and writes your check and then make sure your station is fully stocked, fully clean, fully ready for your shift, and then clock in and then clock in— you don’t clock in before your apron is on, before your apron is tied, before smiling at Mrs. Rosetti, before making certain that your station is stocked— no you don’t do that and then wipe down the butcher boards then the mirrors then the table tops, chairs, floors and then check with Carl to make certain he is all set cause if Carl is not all set and then Carl tells Mrs. Rosetti he is not all set then— and then you will be out of a job and then after Carl is all set re-wipe the butcher boards cause we are only paying you minimum wage and you know what that means and then you don’t ask for a raise, you don’t ask if you can go home early, you don’t ask if you can stay late, if you can take a long lunch, if you can stop and say hi to your friends and then you leave with your friends like the last boy we hired and then we get a post card from California and then the last boy we hired visits us and tells us how everything is wonderful in California, that minimum wage is higher in California, and then you leave to go to California and then you leave Mrs. Rosetti crying in the cannolis and then you don’t laugh at my alliteration because you are only a minimum wage worker— not a part-owner like me, like Carl, like anyone who matters, and then you— are you listening to me or are you— and then you pay attention because this is your training and we don’t pay you for your training— the last boy didn’t get paid for his training and not even Carl got paid for his training so you certainly will not get paid unless you pass your training and then you will clock in because we are only paying you minimum wage and we know you know what that means and then you will wipe the boards and then you will smile at sweet Marie Rosetti because she is the owner and she built this place before you were in diapers and we only pay minimum wage and you will wash the dishes, wash the sinks, wash the stools, wash the floors, mirrors, pots, pans, ladles, because we are only paying you minimum wage and we can replace you in a moment’s notice if you don’t—and then you will not ask for a raise, you will not ask to go on vacation, not ask to buy new furniture for your sorry mother— the minimum wagers always have sorry mothers and then you will think that somehow you are different and then we will tell you that you are not even if you do a good job which is doubtful because minimum wage workers usually do bad jobs and then you will clock in— and then you will clock in— and then you will work.
Back from PHiSH, D&C, & SCI. (July 2019)
Okay, so I wrote this BEFORE the summer even began,
But most of y’all wouldn’t know that anyways,
AND, as it turned out this Summer-Predictions Poem was/is quite accurate…
SUMMER PREDICTIONS –LB 5.17.19
Driving up the Rockies,
Over The Great Divide
Down the Mississipp
through the cornfield...
congested through ways of the.
North east
past and through the drive-in,
drive-thru
Lobster Mc archways,
glazing through dunking rings of dough
crab Merry gaps,
Monumental squares,
Casino roundabouts,
up n down sacred elevations of the
GPS
TA emblazoned Beacons fueling me, Steve, the randos accompanying us and our chariot.
MP3, USB, the F to the B,
the blue Birdie,
the gram to the me,
the W that's three,
and the cloudless/cloudy.
[That might be where it should end]
The cloudless/ Cloudy yellow line,
dashing up,
And through,
In and over
states and codes and counties. Amphitheaters of similar dimensions
with similar sounds
and similar sights, in stealth,
directing my actions.
Parking grills,
pendant thrills,
Icy Gatorade chills,
Obsessive less likely nills.
A buildup of boric cured by a white pill the night's still made for me.
To be me.
[Another potential end]
Them days - ughhhhhh.
Sheetz strewn,
Car loaded
Onwards to the next show
go go slow,
go. Go, enjoy the journey but make the
scene by 3--
Set up, make money, get that ticket.
the day-- so gradually becomes night.
Add, the night's [still] made for me?
The congested smooky boozy money
packed line.
The Hourglass moment.
Squeeze, tug, push.
No cadence, no rhyme, reason, rhythm,
Buck waters
Asshole cops or Boulder cops-- best in
the nation.
Security guards; MGM or MGM
The latter? Michael in a wheelchair,
The former? The CSI kickers.
The lights change
And them four--
And we all--
And "another reason to play Kick the Can."