LEW ARCHER WRITES A POEM
The sun goes down
like a shot of cheap whiskey
and the whole city blacks out.
The moon is a toenail clipping.
And the stars drown in garish neon.
To the innocent, the dark brings dreamy sleep.
For the rest of us, the night shift roars to life
and the hammers of loneliness
begin their monotonous beat.
In the titty bar, Melody takes the stage,
her green g-string, an ammo belt
of dirty dollar bills.
The meat markets are packed with dynamite.
Bright eyes dance over the rims of cocktails,
while the fuse burns faster and faster
and the frantic thrust
of blind sex
In the jazz club, a cat blowing furious sax
is marginalized by a roomful of meaningless
A black-and-white rolls up on a hapless drunk,
caught pissing behind a dumpster,
while packs of acned boys
search for foes to fight.
In other words,
Tom reads "Lew Archer Writes a Poem":
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Tom confesses: "This poem was inspired, of course, by the great Ross Macdonald. His descriptions of California's underbelly during the 50s and 60s are note perfect. And Lew Archer’s ongoing patter is studded with metaphoric gems. Another inspiration was the sad state of my home town. Imagine Lew working in today’s Detroit."
Born and raised in Detroit.
Worked in factories.
Sang rhythm & blues in dive bars.
Became ad agency word merchant.
Dropped out, turned off, tuned in.
Writes poems about conflict between
interior life and exterior world.
Hovers around home town
with true love and two dogs.