Lewis Bosworth Sep 2017
Kumbaya, O written words, customize your thoughts into bite-sized
Nuggets, and store them in the clouds – in the huge video of the sky.
Always easier to see the movie than to read the book, right?  This isn’t
Being lazy – this is efficiency, this is learning to hear and see quickly.

Emoji-me your innermost feelings – and make it snappy, yet truthful –
Obvious like a pebble gracefully striking the water’s surface.  Forsake
The grimness brought by the news of the day – be not obsessed!
Bow down and worship chirps, tweets and posts, and share them.

In the looking glass you can see diminished contemplations as
They drift into nothingness – even the brightness of a smile is
A smirk turned to stone – our language and our soul are a morbid
Collection of dry bones on a sickly precipice.

The new generation is born of a slain, technocratic parent – their
21st birthdays celebrated beneath the fallen soldiers of newsprint –
A new world in which a museum houses the letters and arts of
A coherent paragraph now called a blurb.  

© Lewis Bosworth, 9-2017
Lewis Bosworth Sep 2017
Look around you, in the bushes,
up in the clouds, in the cubicle
next to you at the office.

There’s a (wo)man or maybe
a wo(man) ready to save your
life, put out a fire or kiss you.

(S)he is a mother or a father or
a sister or a nephew – and (s)he
is on a “don’t touch me” list.

The evil one has branded “IT”
as inhuman, ugly, leper, canine –
words that hurt deeply, sting.

You see, (s)he used to have a
penis but now does not – or (s)he
didn’t have a penis, but now does.

What makes the evil one sweat
about the pinkness or blueness
of a child’s toy animals?

Is it wearing pants instead of
skirts?  Is it wearing lipstick
instead of a moustache?

In the court of the evil one –
modeled after Renaissance
art and sculpture – is a rule.

Only the descendants of Eve
properly equipped with a penis –
and born with it – are human.

So, hark, you who believe in
equality, test your chosen ones –
be sure their equipment is valid.

What God has given cannot –
according to the laws of nature –
be changed into fake goods.

Fear not, though, you scaredy-cats,
the evil one now has a solution –
a birth certificate is not enough.

The new proof of citizenship – in
fact the only legal document – is
the penile passport.

This 20-page, copyrighted, coded
booklet is impervious to forgery –
it explodes if attempted.

The bearer’s birth photo is on
page 1 – containing a penis or
labia plus an inkblot thereof.

This is proof positive of the
real gender of the owner – screw
anyone with a contrary viewpoint.

The evil one is pleased with their
cunning enforcement of the true
rule of nature:

Only men – natural penises, of
course – may serve as adherents
of “MY” constitution.

© Lewis Bosworth, 8/2017
Lewis Bosworth Sep 2017
It wasn’t until my housecleaner,
His insulin pump attached to his black
Stockings – to put him in touch with
His feminine side – handed me the

Orange carton of papers from the
Dusty attic, that I realized that I had
Kept all the letters received in the
Years 1956 to 1974.

I was tempted to pitch the lot of
Them when I saw my own mother’s
Handwriting on a few, and my sister,
Whom I had ignored too much

As older brothers do when they’re
Too busy and too important or too
Tied up in life’s joys and sorrows,
As if they just won the lottery.

But names kept popping up from
The past – names not to be ignored
Or forgotten – some were on tattered
Pages, others quite legible, all were

Loving memories of not-so-long-ago
Past loves, former friends, frenemies,
Many, alas, deceased – not with us
Now – the list goes on.

© Lewis Bosworth, 9-2017
Lewis Bosworth Sep 2017
When what I want is to grasp
The words of a dead writer,
In one-half a column torn apart
By my failing strength.

It’s history or fame or a mix of
Stars on the Hollywood sidewalk
That tear up my collector’s zeal,
Not the celebrity of the goal.

You have only to look at one
Page to see a spirit, a substance,
Which shines so brightly, you
Blink and want to cry.

My reading genes are walking
A tightrope, the right brain is
Laps behind its left-hand cousin,
Rebellion devours my senses.

A dash of weed, a dab of prayer
Are in a crystal container at my
Bedside, their warrantee intact,
Pox on paragraphs unseen.

One last look at the print on
The wall, its ancestor apes staring
In defiant glee, Homo sapiens
Will not be retrained.

Cognition, behavior, labels for
The weird act of digestion of
Grammar and words and a dose
Of  heart-managed trust.

What I want is to read, to buy,
Not rent, what was promised,
Yet I am a para-genetic freak
Unable to decipher zip.
© Lewis Bosworth, 9/2017
Lewis Bosworth Aug 2017
If I could walk, I’d march with
The black and civil rights folk.

If I could walk, I’d carry a baby
On my shoulders to let him see

The evil behind him, in front of
Him, across the street he plays in.

If I could walk, I’d wrap love in
A blanket and give it to an old lady.

I’d sell my car and make a
Bandage out of its metal.

I’d be in a parade right next to the
Pastor from down home.

If I could walk, my tears would
Dry up, and my gut, as tight

As steel, would scream, fighting
Against the hate in the world,

The empty hearts emptier by the
Day, the hopeful souls dried up.

I cannot walk, but I can sing, and
I will sing songs of praise and

Melodies of strength and support
For those who hurt and whose

Eyes and ears are numb with
Grief and pain and chaos.

I cannot walk, but I can protest
Against betrayal and lies and

Corruption and bloodshed,
And protest I will.

© Lewis Bosworth, 8-2017
Lewis Bosworth Jul 2017
The circle has no front row,
The circle has no back row.
No standing up, no sitting
Down by rank or class.

Thirty chairs in a circle,
Thirty equal voices, thirty
Pairs of eyes and ears, thirty
Eager minds on alert.

This picture is a learning
Space, a teaching space, a
Safe, sane, willing home
For opening up, for truth.

This circle has few rules,
Its ownership is shared,
No boss, no king, nobody
Wins or loses.

This circle has no colors,
No vibrant palette, no code
Of dress, no pledge of
Allegiance, only the cypher.

Each chair is mobile, it may
Speak, it may be silent.
Each chair faces inward,
Each one opens to the rest.

Fear is absent in this place,
The circle is freedom and
Its cohort sings and dances
The opera of love.

© Lewis Bosworth, 7-2017
Lewis Bosworth Jul 2017
All are invited to taste-test a French meal, free-of-charge, at the
Table of near west side Chef Louis.  The first course will be a
Salade Niçoise, prepared the usual way – vegetables, salad greens
From the Periwinkle family, des oeufs durs et des olives ‒ Flavored with a pinch of myrtle.  Those so inclined may have escargots instead.  Louis will pop the cork on a vintage vin rouge.

The main course:  canard à l’orange, spécialité de la maison.  
Known far and wide as the best duck in town, it has a secret sauce
Including the bird’s bone marrow, and is a favorite of Paul Soglin;
Hizzoner has been showing up brandishing a “ditch Walker” sign.

While the cuisine is incomparable, the dinner music, too, is
Délicieuse.  In town for only a week is the diva, Renée Fleming,
Accompanied by the virtuoso cellist, Yo-Yo Ma.  To forestall the
Entry of hordes of fans, Louis will have the louvers closed.

The wait staff will be in the wings with the dessert du jour, Crêpes
– using the best Orange Curaçao ‒ before a small frigate
Is unmoored for return to the Lesser Antilles to pick up a new
Stash.  Louis is a total service restauranteur, and he has vowed to
Let all his guests take a selfie, with him, Yo-Yo and Renée, in the
Private chef’s booth, in just a glimmer of the day’s remaining light.

Though he’s unbearded, Louis uses Brilliantine regularly to help
Him attract the most voluptuous of available dates.  Mais, prenez
Garde, mes demoiselles, Louis est français, après tout….

© Lewis Bosworth, 7-2017
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