I believe most people are good people. I believe the combination of chocolate & peanut butter to be divinely inspired. If you disagree that's ok, but I don't need to know. In airports there should never be news playing on monitors; The Simpsons, or other such entertainment, is the only sensible option. We must never again use the death penalty. If you disagree that's ok, but I don't need to know. I will never again use mind or mood alerting drugs. They don't work for me, ok? I always make my bed after I’m out of it each day. If you use drugs; if you don’t make your bed; That's ok. I don't need to know. I eat meat. Eating meat is wrong. I am conflicted; you probably don’t need to know, so I apologize. The Atari 2600 is, and will always be, the best Video Game System EVER created. John & Yoko had it right. If you prefer a different video game system; if you HATE John & Yoko; You are very wrong, and if I know I will judge you accordingly. Staying home too much leads to... Yet, my home has its own patio, so I guess... If you disagree— wait, those are not arguable. As much as possible one should always sing "Happy Birthday" to loved ones. I believe we should all do our best to show compassion to smokers. Smoke often gets me nauseous, ok? If you disagree on the birthdays, or the smokers, that's ok; I will try not to judge you. I believe in the human race; in its ability to work together and overcome its difficulties. There are infinite paths toward spiritually. You may disagree, yet you shouldn't. No matter how “finished” I might think a piece is it probably isn’t. If one has nothing positive to say one should stay quiet. You should know what I am talking about, but if you don’t and/or you disagree, that's ok, I don't need to know.
Rhyme the Night
Want to learn history? Walk around this city. Want to learn how this town was built? Drink a cappuccino— make sure it ain't spilt. Want to learn this currency? Look at that Confederacy. Want to learn the night? In an alley pull a knife. Pull anything you can choose. Go to Ross, grab cheap shoes. Go to Mickey D's— If you please. A Big Mac's better without the cheese. Or stay on in— it's your choice. It's your story, it’s your voice. Write a line or read three more. Whichever is less likely to bore. You want to learn how to integrate? Stir in cream— just don't wait. Find the area of a curve. Bullet coming at you, you better swerve, And Zimmerman sure did serve. That’s right, Zimmerman sure did swerve. This epic poem ain't easy to write. Especially if you already rhymed the night. So if the White House is the one you hate. Pile more spaghetti on your plate. Or find a girl— Selma, don't wait. Unplug your favorite disco hot plate. Don't really matter if you ain't got the right. May as well rhyme the night, Man! May as well rhyme the night. I didn't write the chorus, the chorus wrote me. Go ask your mother. Yeah, we'll see. A lot of Rube a little bit of Gold. This burg's getting younger while I's growing old. Remove the staple— you got a 'fold. The 'net's better for that, I'm told. Click, click, click, click, click, away. Straight, trans, hetero, buy my gay. Consume anything to keep you tight Yeah, may as well rhyme the Night. Shucks, again I rhymed the night! I got a horizontal tower Laid at my feet. Public transportation elevator Moves you several feet. Sleeping on a mattress of equator. It's hot and I don't like the heat. A lot of it's— I don't get the sleep. Thinking of a word instead of "night". This poem's almost over. It’s almost trite. A couple more words to stretch this tune. Yeah, may as well rhyme the Moon. That's right, may as well rhyme the Moon.
What I did today.
It is so nice that things are starting to open up again. It might seem silly, but I feel truly blessed that I was able to actually do something today, rather than dither away in my apartment on what I was not able to do, like so many other days of late. What follows is the record of how I spent this last day in June of 2021.
What I did today.
Well, after about 15 minutes of reading in bed I finally got up and brushed my teeth. Then I combed out my long hair and then I shaved my face and then I combed my hair again because parts of my shavings had gotten in my hair. Then I took a shower realizing I probably should have shaved in the shower, but oh well, and I needed to shower so it was a good thing that I showered after the shave anyhow. I ate breakfast. My breakfast was very yummy. It was very very yummy. My breakfast was oatmeal and carrots and I know that sounds like an odd combination but when brown sugar and raisins are put in with the carrots and a little bit of flaxseed the oatmeal tastes marvelous, simply marvelous, simply, quite simply very very marvelous. After breakfast, and doing the dishes, naturally, I vacuumed the carpet, mopped my kitchen floor, painted that fence the neighbor's dog shat all over, ran to the mill and back, then did fifteen sit-ups and twenty five pull ups, using that old sign that fell so many years ago that we used to carve with our pocket knives to pull up against, and then, right there besides the rusted Volvo, I took a nice little nap. Oh, I napped and napped and napped and then napped some more and yet when I awoke only 37 minutes had passed! It is amazing how time gets all coco loco when asleep. Anyways it was a delightful little nap and after the nap I wrote a letter to Uncle Jed stationed the somewhere in the army— I have no clue where, Afghanistan? South Carolina? I really have no clue, but fortunately, my cousin, Tennessee, my Uncle Jed's son naturally, does know where my Uncle Jed— his father— is stationed, so naturally, I mailed the letter to Jed who always is so illustrious in sending off my tidings of bravaberance. Then I left my home. I left home and I wandered around the city. I wasn't really going anywhere in particular. I just wandered, nowhere to go— just hang around. I just wandered and then I wandered some more and then when I got tired I wandered even still. While I was wandering I kept on wondering how long I wandered for. I’m not entirely certain how long I wandered for. I wonder how long I was wondering? How long did I wander? How long did I wonder? For all this business of wondering and wandering is really quite tiring to me at this point so therefore I think I will wrap up my exfoliation on what I did today. Yet, after wondering I quickly found my way home and realized that I had done nothing at all all day. Sure my apartment was clean, I had a good breakfast, I was neatly trimmed, yes, I was clean of course, I wrote that letter to Uncle Jed and sent it to cousin Tennessee, I walked around the city and saw some fantastic things, but ultimately I had done nothing for society. I had accomplished nothing to benefit anyone else other than me so what I figured I would do in the wading hours of the day would be to write this description of what I did and share it with people that are interested in seeing what a normal person like myself does— the normal average ordinary everyday normal average ordinary person like me.
Location Domination
In a text yesterday to my friend I wrote, "Sunset girlfriend home location domination", accompanied with a picture of some dim sum from a near-to-my-girlfriend's-home Dim Summery. When the text was shown to my girlfriend she suggested I turn it into a poem. Enjoy.
LOCATION DOMINATION
Sunset girlfriend home location domination. Wing production spicy incantations. Incandescent post-incessant longing mastications. A complicated jumbling of verse. A longer weekend stumbles. We rehearse. We live within the moment Although we feel without Our thoughts bumbling onwards Inward, plans shout. Shady ways give thistles to the dry. Golden vistas, dusty, try our thighs. The station's fuel restore our windswept eyes. A complicated jumbling of lines. A longer weekend stumbles. We revise. We live within our means Yet time can barely stretch Our attitudes dictate how we sigh Future memories plan their future etch Downtown boyfriend home location domination Pho consumption spices vaccinations. Buying nothing recoils a compendium of temptations. A complicated jumbling of ideas. A weekend redefines what our decree is. We live within our time We dream of other days Our vocations tend to hone and keep us clear We live together separate ways.
There is No Perfect Moment
There is no perfect moment Except the now. Perfection slips. Rubber grips. Dishes fall. People trip. There is no perfect moment Except the then. Playing pen. Remember when? In the sand. The magic hand. There is no perfect moment Except last week. Your friends they speak. That coffee tweak. Purple flowers fleet. That newest plant-based meat. Add in some rhyme with treat. Connecticut leaves Past fall trees. Capturing persimmons in the breeze. And yet, There is no perfect moment. There can never be the truth. There is no perfect moment All passes then we hoot. We holler, scream & shout. Perfection lies without. The moment slips from us. Perfection is a bust. There is no perfect moment Except sunny rays’ embrace. Ocean laps her face. Falling from that grace. Bed sheets in their place. Coffee grounds– a waste. The taste. No space. No filing cabinets’ mace. No filler in the page. A morphing rhyming way. No perfection for this date. There is no perfect moment Except the now. Except the then. Clichés proclaim The sword is mightier than— Reverse— revise— your thoughts again. The poet is your friend. Rhyme something with again. Mumbled verses. Digitized curses. Space rehearses. A never-ending end. A sword less than a pen. An insult. You know. I too know again. There is no perfect moment. No moment does exist Except elusive slippage. The transitive into the bridge. The link from verse to you. A simple end of line… So fine. So find perfection So past due. Past you. Past through. Past participation. Over anticipation. Further, till it's new. There is no simple ending. A circular discussion is had. Only words and punctuation. An accomplishment once glad. There is no simple ending. No end can neatly close. No final ending stanza. This may as well have been prose. This may as well have been Unwritten, Unread, uncared, unseen. There is no perfect moment. Have I conveyed this simple dream?
I See Her
I see her in the mountains. I see her in the trees. I feel her presence in the rain, Upon the shifting breeze. I see her in each view, each vista, each pebble and each speck. I see her when cars rush by, as a caution to respect. I see her in the Golden Gate and upon the sunset’s rays. Looking up, sky so blue, birds call her name. I feel her presence when I bathe, yes for obvious reasons, As daylight stretches marching us into uncharted seasons. I think of her when I sleep. I dream of her at my side. On the stove as I retire, the bubbles whisp her name. While I boil, or add oil, or adjust that helpful flame, She calls to me, I smell her near, I feel her breath so sweet, Oh my Angela, oh my dear, your name in all I speak. A life, a Cloud shift, a moon turning gold… Oh my sweetest Angela with you they broke the mold… You’re in my thoughts. I love you. You keep me whole. Oh sweetest wonderful, let’s build together till we’re old.
The Poet's Mecca
Isn't it something that the tone for this poem wasn't realized amidst the flowers, drawings, and other remembrances strewn about in front of City Lights while people strolled oblivious to the sentiment created? That instead it manifested itself as a text (from the author to his sweetheart) as, I'm at City Lights The poet's Mecca And our King has passed
Infinity's Time
What do I say when my love says, "I love you"; she'll "be mine"? What can I say that I've not said in infinity's time? Where can I look when her glance melts my mind? When should I peer in her eyes, knowing they’re mine? How is it we find the air we breathe Is enough to sustain all we need? How did we become that which we seek? How do I know there's nothing to speak.
I Could Tell You
I could tell you all the movies I've watched. I could prepare you all the foods I've tried. I could bring you to the places I've enjoyed, still we'd be just as close as when we lie. I'll explain all the things I know. I'll paint all the sunsets I've seen. I'll sing all the songs I've heard And you will still love me exactly as you've been. All our memories that we share And all that we create Cannot come close to compare To the love our lives await.
Unsaid
I taste her dreams upon my lips. The things I've seen they often slip Like smiles upon her lovely head. We gently rest upon my bed. The stars and moon collide above To words unspoken and unsaid. A request by her to take it slow. The things I know and do not know. A date, a month, an early time. Cliches uttered-- "hers" and "mine". Bumbling fools, we fit as gloves. Hands become warmer and entwined. Thoughts shift, feelings take control, Place my intellect on a hold. Await the time when we shall fall, Tumble backwards into the all. Together combine we are part of This thing we know yet cannot call.
“Lewis Makes The Best Spring Rolls.”
I make the world's best— most scrumptious, most freshest, most crispest, most unbelievably— most amazing spring rolls. Ask anyone and they'll say, "Lewis makes the best spring rolls." I am not bragging, you see, it’s common sense. Everyone recognizes three things in life, namely: 1) The sky is blue. 2) Water is wet. 3) Lewis makes the best spring rolls. Let me explain how this came to pass… One day I was enjoying some spring rolls at the local Vietnamese restaurant and I said to a fellow diner, "I can make these and people will say, 'Lewis makes the best spring rolls.'" Later that day, with my masterful gastronomic skills, my legendary creations came into being and immediately everyone was saying— actually proclaiming is more like it, "Lewis makes the best spring rolls." Within 48 hours I had received several ostentatious invites to debutante happenings, gallery openings, classical recitals, political fund raisers and such, provided of course, that I show up with my most excellent, most exquisite, most distinguished spring rolls. I was only too happy to do so. I see this as my duty, my obligation, my raison d'etre, as it were! Too many people have eaten inferior spring rolls for far too long and this I vow, that as long as I live, people will have access to the most delectable, most heavenly, most mouth-watering spring rolls available on God's bountiful planet. And for that, my spring rolls will always be available! People have attempted to pay me for bringing my luscious appetizing rich savory zesty most succulent most amazing most word-defying creations to their events. I always refuse compensation. Hearing them exclaim in ecstasy, at the risk of choking on a jalapeno or a julienned carrot, “Lewis makes the best spring rolls", is payment enough, and exclaim they do. Why the other day at a gala I just had to attend Michael Tilson Thomas himself, you know the conductor of the San Francisco Symphony? Thomas exclaimed, “Lewis makes the best spring rolls!” Note the exclamation point, dear readers, yes, he actually emphasized his endorsement for my Asian delicacies with his baton, thus deserving, in the retelling here, of an exclamation point. As excited as the notable conductor was, he sought me out to invite me up to Tahoe for several weekends, not to ski with his family as they frequently do, but to observe some national ski event. Regardless, I refused. Spring rolls suffer at high altitudes. You see, Thomas, is someone who admires the technological aspects of sports recording and how he might incorporate such strategies into his own video projects. Well, he thanked me for my time and wished me well. I sent him three dozen rolls in good will. To date I have sent four thousand, three hundred fifty two spring rolls to such deserving patrons, like Thomas, that insist, just insist, that I attend their daughter’s coming out, or their father’s recent acquisition party, or a close friend’s book signing deal, or any other of about a million similar gatherings. Yes, although I am not in the business to make an appearance at every occasion asked of me, still this I vow, that as long as I live, people will have access to the most delectable, most heavenly, most mouth-watering god-like spring rolls available on God's green earth; that they will continue to enjoy the freshest, most succulent, most awesomest, most god-inspired spring rolls ever, that upon the sight, the mere sight of these sublime delicacies they will mumble through half masticated globules of spring roll, "Lewis makes the best spring rolls," and for that, my spring rolls will always be available!
Ghosts in the City
While walking the fashionable Fillmore Street, near California, it appeared that a long-lost coworker/acquaintance that is now quasi-homeless was huddled in a doorway looking subhuman. Immediately I think of other people I have known over my twenty years in San Francisco who, like the huddled one mentioned above, being once healthy and vibrant, are now no longer. I ponder a few recent run-ins with the like. This poem springs from that inner-dialog.
Ghosts in the city
These ghosts in the city pass through me. I’m passing them— Passing quickly. They howl as I pass, Outstretch a word or a wrest… These ghosts in doorways, These ghosts on the bus, These ghosts crawling sideways, These ghosts leaking rust, They were bright Blue and sparkly, Tall and tout. They were spirited, Sharp and with wit, They were friends. They were with it. These ghosts… These ghosts who sleep in doorways Dining on scrumptious crust Romantic as they’re colorful Surviving on their gut. Murky, dying, dull, Crunched over and small, Empty-headed, slow, Gloom-filled, They were friends. They were with it. Now I see these people Not as friends, ghosts or as they are… These frequent occurrences I witness Recall to me my scars. Reminds me I’m frail, Just as human, Just as weak. I wish I could stop seeing them, I just have nothing left to speak.
I Don’t Know Where
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.