On our way into
Santa Anita one day,
an old man had tipped
over in his wheelchair.
There was a pool of blood
beneath his smooth head.
I was with my Dad.
He was around the same
age as the poor injured man.
I was 12.

Seeing that man, and watching
the blank stares of the apathetic
crowd gathering around the
man, and the blood, and the
fallen wheelchair, I knew that
nobody would win, and the
horses that ran were the luckiest
of us all.

As nightmares subside
at dawn, your eyes
reflect the fear and the
pain.
They spill a desire to try.

Please try.

You can walk in the
rain without an umbrella
and let the clover and
honeysuckle guide you
to safety.
Evict the chaos from
your thoughts, and
leave the incubus behind.

On the backs of
flies
we wait for the
next thing.
Something is
always coming.
A birth or death,
food or hunger
hatred
laughter
love...

Something is always
coming around the
corner.
The Mad Hatter with
mushroom tea.
A strange color of
blue that tastes like
almonds.
A ****** that sparkles
in the night.

Listless mornings
of languid
walks with the
wife in the cool
of the evening.

A knife in the back,
a shark attack,
or maybe, just
possibly, you write
a poem about
waiting for the
next thing.

Bowing to the ***** god,
I lived like a pleasure
seeking missile, propelled
toward all things ME.
Empty as a carcass.
Hungry as a desert.
I didn't see the
strawberry moon of
summer.
It was me and the
Ferryman, until the
river ran dry.
Eternal winter for
the soul.

And then

A revolution in my
being.
A total shift in
my values and
perception.
The Creator purchased
my dilapidated heart.
He moved in and lives
there still.

My home, on the outside
might look like
a shack to some, but inside
it's a mansion with the
most sublime bread you
ever tasted.
Fruit trees in every room.

We talk about the
past like it's a
movie we
watched together.
You liked the
cinematography.
I didn't care for the
cruelty of the
protagonist.

We disagree on the
theme, and every
scene holds different
aspects of
symbolism for us.
I'm not sure I want
there to be a sequel,
despite the good
acting.

You were worried about
the storm, so you
invited it in,
wanting to control the
damage through your
kindness and friendship.
But you can't.
The storm doesn't have
a conscience.
It will never be a cute
pet on your leash.

When my oldest brother, Todd,
came back for my mom's funeral,
he had this light about him.
His face was a poem.
Sure, he was the oldest, and he
had a healthy-looking tan from the
hot New Mexico sun, working
outside with turquoise, silver,
and bear claws to make
jewelry for the tourists, but there
was more than that.

He was an artist, and all artists have
a fractured ease about things, but he
lit up.  Something from the inside
projected out.
He comforted everyone else, we leaned
on him.  His eyes oozed serenity.

A few calendars later, when I traveled
back for his funeral, I saw the same
look on a few of his friends' faces.
His wife told me after the service
that Todd had gotten sober years before.

Empty and debauched,
that hollow space
inside of me,
the cavernous
void that I tried
to stuff with
*****, drugs,
****** galore
turned out to be
the exact shape of
the Creator.

I smelled the stale
breath of death coming
for me on the
nightmare wind.
Life tasted like rotten
meat.
Maggots ate away at
my soul, and all I
touched felt like
cracked cement and
broken glass.

Always lost
forever searching.

I'm glad I found my
way home to the
sublime symphony, life can be,
should be
will be, if I don't wander
to the barren places, and
pitch a tent.

I will not be
subdued.
Cages don't suit me.
I have to be free.
Fly
run
sing
dance in the
open fields, swim
in the river with
the fish and water snakes.
My soul can't be
taken without my permission.
The access is denied.
My heart isn't yours to
mock and ****.
I will rise like
the phoenix from
the ashes and sail on against
the azure sky, free and
untethered.
Resurrected
I'm back from the dead.

She had these little cups
of coffee for eyes, and I
should have stayed up
all night.
Love is a drunk *****.
A lie from Saturn.
Venus, slither back in the
ocean where you belong.
Loneliness is a knife cutting
my ***** off.
Knowledge arrived with an
alarm clock from hell,
always the wrong *******
time. Slammed doors, words
of hatred.
What happens to the man that
inherits the wind?

We were drinking ourselves
into the grave.
I escaped temporarily.
Greg didn't.
He was crossing a
busy street in Iowa City.
In his baggy, ***** jeans
was a bottle of ***** that
he had just lifted.
I'm guessing he was in
too big a hurry to
"get well" and knock
off the shakes.
A minivan ran him down.

Before the ***** wrecked him,
he was a lawyer, and a pretty
**** good golfer.
But what I remember the
best were our days at Prairie
Meadows, playing the ponies.
We cashed a few winning
tickets together, and
tore up some losers too.

God bless you, little buddy.
You're on the homestretch now.

For many years,
I didn't own a
television.
I didn't want one.
The news gave me
anxiety, and most of
the movies were
horrible.
Bad actors,
terrible acting
and predictable plots.

I wasn't buying any
of it.

My Dad loved
watching movies.
He often used the word,
contrived
when summarizing them.

I remember watching
The Grapes of Wrath
with him.
After the movie, Dad talked
about leaving in his will,
a list of his ten favorite
movies for his seven kids
to watch sometime.
He wanted us to know
him better.

He forgot about it and died
a few years later.
I always thought Dad had
too much faith in mankind.
But, after watching The Grapes
of Wrath again, maybe he
didn't.
I hope we all live until
we die.

I'm happy to announce the release of my
latest book of poetry, Sleep Always Calls.
It's available on Amazon, and I read from it on
my YouTube channel.

"Sleep Always Calls is a powerful poetry collection by American poet and author Thomas W. Case. The poetry is raw and gritty. There is honesty and truth in the writing of Thomas W. Case, which is refreshing in today's world of contrived and polished literature. Once you start reading this book, it will be difficult to put it down. The themes range from addiction to heartbreak, and always, a semblance of victory for the downtrodden soul. His creativity and insight are brilliant and fresh in this poetry compilation."

Crazy times of dime bag
dreams and fevered river
scenes that would drown
the lice in Bukowski's beard.

There was a quiet stretch of
sand on the Iowa River, not
far from downtown.
I pitched a tent in the woods
behind that little beach.
Blue herons and blue *****,
I hadn't been laid in a while.

A woman in a red one-piece
swimsuit used to come on
sunny days and lie in the sand
drinking Chardonnay.
I should have done like the
crawdaddy and backed
away.

I stumbled out of the woods
one afternoon, and began talking to
her and drinking her wine.
We laughed and drank under
that demented Iowa sun.
At night, we peeled off our
clothes and swam in the river with
the water snakes and ghosts that
floated down from the university.
I'm almost positive that
Dylan Thomas and Vonnegut
drank with us one night.
It could have just been
cholera or typhoid.

I built a fire after our swim, and we
danced naked and ****** next to an
old elm tree.
The otters and muskrats watched,
as the crawdaddyy slowly backed
away into the wine-soaked night.

I love it while
it sleeps--smiling,
wet with tea;
dreaming dormouse dreams.
I tickle its downy fur.
And it laughs and
moans softly.
I want to put it in
my pocket and
carry it everywhere;
take it out on
lonely autumn nights and
play with her until
she's exhausted,
relaxed and rested,
content and lost in my
fingers and in my heart.

This is just a short announcement.
Thank you all for your support.
I would like to announce the release of my
latest book, Sleep Always Calls.
It's available on Amazon.
In my humble opinion, it's my
best book yet.
I have a YouTube channel where I read my poetry.
I will include a link.

Sleep Always Calls is a powerful poetry collection by American poet and author Thomas W. Case. The poetry is raw and gritty. There is honesty and truth in the writing of Thomas W. Case, which is refreshing in today's world of contrived and polished literature. Once you start reading this book, it will be difficult to put it down. The themes range from addiction to heartbreak, and always, a semblance of victory for the downtrodden soul. His creativity and insight are brilliant and fresh in this poetry compilation.

Sleep Always Calls drags you through back alleys of the soul, where sleep is a lie and demons don’t knock. Thomas W. Case spits fire and blood in these new poems, carving truth from bone with every line. Gritty, unfiltered, and unapologetically raw, this collection doesn’t whisper—it growls. Think Bukowski in a blackout. Cohen, after the love is gone. These poems don’t want to save you. They want you to feel everything.

Hook him up to the machine.
Shock his brain into
mediocrity.
Death stalks him;
he is aware.
There is too much
flash in his eyes.
His brain needs a reboot;
he needs to forget,
like a goldfish, like
a monkey in the zoo.
Hook him up to the machine.
He is too sentimental.
Salmon swim in his blood;
he has a paisley heart,
and a tie-dye soul.
He can smell colors.
Hook him up to the machine.
He has Van Gogh eyes, and
a Bukowski gut; he walks
like he's lost in a maze;
hunchback sadness,
butcher knife nerves,
Hook him up to the machine.
He believes in love,
and has too much trust.
His vivid green memory
is a curse, we need to
crash it, **** the eternal spring.
Hook him up to
the machine.

We used to meet at this
enclosed bus stop.
Glassed in, like a
blurry-eyed goldfish.
Diesel morning sadness.
We were drunks, dead, and
still dreaming.
There was Chuck, Dog,
Lefty
Lucky
and Beth.

We shared our minuscule
amounts of liquor, and sang
old Motown favorites.

"Mama said there'd be days
like this."

These were the days of the
drunk and debauched.
Liars and lovers, partakers
in this waddling life.
Shattered days and fractured
nights.
We shadowboxed with the
sun, and pretended tomorrow
was a century away.

The mediocre march into oblivion
while watching Tik Tok videos
and never reading a
book or writing a
poem.
They don't know
the difference between
an orchid or an iris.

The mediocre march into
madness sleeping until
noon, while neglecting
Bukowski and Mozart.
They don't know how
to play an instrument.
No idea what a C
major chord is.
But they know all
the emojis.
The sad sheep masses
don't
know the difference
between a Van Gogh or
Monet painting, and a
digital reproduction on
a coffee cup.
Their phones look
like grotesque growths
attached to their ears.
Everyone should
contribute to the
cosmic dance,
Carpe Diem
*******!

We all hated music class in
6th grade.
We clowned around
constantly.
The only thing good about
it was Miss. Reed. She was a
nervous sort.  She wore her
hair in a **** bun, there were
always a few hairs that escaped
her beret.  She wore these big
horn-rimmed glasses.
Sat on her desk and waved her
hands around like she was
conducting an orchestra of
idiots.

She became animated and
moved from side to side, up
and down.
C major children!
I always tried to
look up those tweed
skirts she wore.
One time, I thought I saw her
bush.
I told my friends, and they called
me a liar.

Frank McManus said,
"Alright, wise guy, what did it
look like?"

I said,
Our cat, Muffin, just had kittens.
There's this chubby black fuzzy one,
we call her Grumpy.  That's what
it looked like."

"Oh, you're full of ****, a broad like that
would wear *******.  What if she had a
period and bled all over?  They'd fire
her for sure."

We used to sing that old song, Molly Malone.
Well, I had my best friend who sat at the
desk right in front of me, and no ****,
his name was Wally Malone.
One day, after school, he cornered me in the
bathroom.
"If you scream, sweet Wally Malone and
that **** about cockles and mussels in my
ear one more ******* time, I'm gonna sock
you right in the mouth."
I always felt bad for the woman in
the song, dying of fever, and then haunting
the town.

During the last class before summer, we were
being especially wild.
Miss Reed said,
"Am I addressing a 6th-grade class?"
I said, "No, we dress ourselves."
I knew I should have been a
comedian instead of a poet.
I sure miss that kitten, Grumpy.

She left me like
Brutus left Caesar
like a shark attack.
My back was bent and
bleeding, and I was well
versed in delirium.

She had the electricity
shut off the day after
she abandoned me, and I drank
myself into a new oblivion.
There were kittens in
the wall--shadows tall and hot,
and I was well-versed
in delirium.

I stole Four Locos' from
the convenience store, but
not enough to keep
the goblins at bay.
They chased me through
my nightmare--molested
me at dawn.
The elixir exorcised the monsters.
But I often misplaced it,
in the dryer or fireplace.
The meat began to rot in
the freezer, and I was
well-versed in delirium.

My moonflowered brain thought
the cat tree was
a person.
I paced the floor and
talked to it; asked questions,
sought solace.
Degradation of the
mind reached critical mass.
And I landed in the
psych ward again.
The bats brought seizures,
and cheesecake, and yogurt
berry parfaits that were
to die for.
I was well-versed in
delirium

Tomorrow is
nebulous at best.
A dream of one
who still sleeps.
You are alive now.
Awake in this fresh
green world.
In the planning, we
forget to live.

Ask the mice and men
how plans go.
There are traps and
trivialities that keep
you from carrying on.
Funny things happen on
the way to the bank.
My mom died while
grocery shopping.

Today, peers back at
you from the mirror.
Breath and heartbeat.
Desire and passion.
No one survives this
story.
You're the author and the
protagonist, write it
well.

There's an old gray
cat that wanders the
neighborhood.
Neutered and wild
green eyes.
He's confident, and
thick,
doesn't trust humans
but loves tuna.
I don't blame him.
I have three female
cats that watch him through
the window, wagging their
slim tails.
He couldn't care less.

I call him Bubba.
His head is the size of
a grapefruit.
Half of one ear is gone.
I put food out for him.
He waits until I go inside
to eat it.
He's tough.
Lived a rough life.
I can tell, I've been down
some of the same
back roads as him,
slept in similar
alleys.

But no one has
taken my *****

yet.

I've been to the
bitter, dark place
where dreams are
decorations in
dilapidated houses,
a building haunted by
the ghosts of spring.
I tasted the wine of
****** and convicts
there.

I've prayed with the
broken and wasted.
I spent
days and months,
almost forever with
the feral men and
women of America in
homes not fit for fleas.

Then one cosmic day,
while the wounded slept,
I chased a beautiful
moth that escaped the flame.
And that has made all
the difference.

It's a different
day and age now.
I used to write my
poetry on scraps of
paper or napkins,
paper sacks, whatever
was handy.
One time, I wrote
a poem
on a paper plate--around in
a circle.
I get dizzy thinking about it.
They always got lost, or beer
spilled on them.
My girlfriend blew her
nose on a sonnet.

Now, I keep all my
poetry and short stories on
the computer.
A file for this.
A folder for that.
I have to use a password, and
PIN.
It has to be something important to
me or I will forget it.
Lower case.
Upper case.
Symbols.
Numbers.
It's enough to drive me
batty.
Actually, it's a short putt.
Summer is coming soon, so I
thought some golf humor would
be appropriate.

The things that used to be
important to me aren't anymore.
*****.
Drugs.
Having a woman around
constantly.
I like to think I've gained some
wisdom with age.

Passwords, ugh!
I can't tell you what's important
to me now.
You might hack into my
computer and steal all my
pretty posey.

We all have something
urgent to do.
Tell the man that
works at the butcher's
shop.
Tell the boy who delivers
your newspaper.
Tell the groundhog before
he sees his shadow.
Dig up Poe and Ginsberg,
and tell them.

Tell the street
musician playing
for tips.
Tell the ****** and the
virgins.
Tell the next fish that
you catch.
Tell the banker and the
candlestick maker.
Tell the cats, and dogs, and
wombats.
Tell the starving
artists and poets.
Tell your wife, mistress, and
the old lady next door.

Tell the cloned sheep and
the deep part of the ocean.
Tell the magician and
carnival worker.
Tell the drunk, though he may
forget.
Tell the farmer and his cattle.
Tell the spider, and if it refuses
to listen, tell all the flies caught in
the web.
Tell the psychic, though, they
should know.
Tell everyone and everything
that Artificial
Intelligence wants to be the
21st-century god.

But, whatever you do, don't tell
that smiling machine that does it
all for you.  It will blink its cold
eye holes and wish you well,
then slice your throat while
you sleep.

The world is an
orphan's broken toy.
Heart like a ferrel hog,
untamed by cages and
starvation.

The depth of misery and
elation sink dripping teeth
into ripe peaches.

Come on in.
Ignore the floating, bloated
bodies.
There's a pool of Shalom
somewhere.
We all want to be healed.

Destiny is a
smiling *******
riding a motorcycle
through the
neighborhood, laughing
at children playing in
yards, eaten by worms and
time.
Pink
green
white
Keliedescope confusion on all
the cat's faces.
Providence is a stealthy hunter.

Those silver cans of
government meat, set
on the table with a red
and white checkered
tablecloth.
An old yellow light hung
on a chain illuminating
the can of meat.
It tasted like flavorless
gum.
It seemed like a mish-mash
of byproducts that no one
else wanted.
Mom always tried to make
a casserole out of it, but no
amount of pasta or sauce
would fix that roadkill.

Mom hid the cans in the
trash.  Tried to bury it
beneath empty packages
of mushrooms and onion
skins.
I'd dig lightly, and there it
was.
That silver government can.
Shadows for dinner.

A silhouetted pig, cow, or
chicken, made a cameo
on the can.
They reminded me of those
horrid souvenirs from
Disneyland that hung
above the antique *****.
As a boy, I'd look up to see
one of my brothers or sisters
likeness splayed out on the
wall in a creepy silhouette of
horror.
Deathlike, dark, and final.

It was like they caught the animal
at the
last stand.
Death and then eaten.
I know that's why I'm
here.

Without poetry, we'd all
be chained to fences of time.
locked in,
torn apart,
played with by the
cosmic dance.

Don't get me wrong,
the poems can't
cure cancer, or heal the
lame dog's leg.
But, they might give
the ****** hope, and the
hobos a home.

Poetry tricks the mind
into seeing things,
like woolfhounds with
bagpipes playing an
Irish jig, far away from
the ferryman and his ride
across the river.

Without poetry, about now,
my skull
would be a home for beetles
and worms, turning
ever so slowly into
dust.

I was starving in
Pennsylvania.
One night, I had
enough.
Done with it all.
The poverty and
sickness.
The drunken mad
nights
and dog-fight days.
Brutality for breakfast.
Served sunny side up
runny yolks with
butterflies trapped in
the yellow sunshine.
Spiders built webs in
my soul.

I stood on the torn-up
couch in my living room and
yelled at the walls.

Listen, you devil.
You want me, you better be
ready for a fight.
I paced the floor like a
washed-up heavyweight champ,
eyeing the ceiling like a
drunken sparrow in a cat's mouth.

Stick a knife in the dawn.
Twist the peonies
into puppets.
Put the goldfish on
the counter and feed
it cereal.
Mice cast shadows as
big as elephants on
the yellow walls of
my heart.
Dance a slow waltz with
the philodendron.
Dig up
Mozart
Bach, and
Wagner.
Make a chocolate cake.
Read me, TS Eliot, and
sing old hymns.

**** everything.
Mom and Dad have died.

Death winks at the
lilies that smile in
the rain.
He takes her.
The last ***** trick.

Watered drinks and
syphilis doesn't do the
patrons any good.
Too much grief for
placebos and madness.
Relief must come.
***** and fantasy just
bring sickness, and
licking frogs is
out of the question.

Pipe dreams ease the pain
if you smoke them slowly.
Watch the blue ghost curl
into the feeling fan.

This saloon is home for the
iceman.
So, buy me another drink,
and we can think about
doing it all
tomorrow.
Isn't that right, Mr. O'Neil?

***** and broken
dreams fall like
slanted rain in
a hurricane.
Mud-faced youth
plummet to the
ground.

He had wings that
gave him flight.
The sun was
beautiful and bright.
It melted into the ocean.

But there is danger in
flying too low as well,
just ask the mermaids in
the depths of hell.
The seawater screws
up the lift.

Fly to safety and
peace,
not the
fantastical or
far-fetched.
You don't need to
have it all.
Beware of

too

much



ambition.

Calico snakes crawl the
garden of our love.
You, in your gingham
dress and hair in braids,
bent over the radishes.

I, unshaven in my *****
Johnny Cash t-shirt.
Earth all over my
face.
I fell into your
firey ring, that's for
**** sure.

As soon as my guard comes
down, you and that drunken
pirate moon, and that mad
smiling snake burn
me every time.

I'm leaving the garden and
heading back to those
wild midnight alleys where I
know what's coming.
Nursery rhymes are just
metered horror stories.
And spring is the biggest
liar of them all.

Out of nowhere
a thought of you
will hit my mind,
like a poison dart.
I don't know what
triggers it.
Tonight, I think it's
the cold wind blowing
outside my window.
Or, it could be the
tangerine I just ate.
That sweet juice.
It doesn't last
though.
Gone in a flash.
Too small for a
lifetime together.
And I'm alone with
this bright orange pain,
vowing never to write
about you again.

Tonight, I lie in bed and
scribble in a black spiral
notebook.
Why is cruelty easy for
some? Like laying down
a card.

One of my three cats,
Mojo
sits sleepily on
my old maple desk.
She is all black.
The computer screen is
black.
So are the speakers,
microphone,
and a coffee cup that
sits on the desk.

Above my dresser is a
quote by Hemingway.

"There is nothing to writing.
All you have to do is sit down
at a typewriter and bleed."

It's on black paper.

I've had the room set up
this way for over a year.
I'm just noticing all the
blackness.
Midnight in Nod.
It could be because I miss
my daughter.  She's seven.
All the black fades away when
I think about her smile
and those eyes that laugh at the
rain.

I notice that my shirt
is emerald green, with a
few drops of red.

Plop
Plop

Plop.

The brilliance of the
ladybug landing on
my white coffee cup
as the wind blows through
the bedroom window
I think of ee cummings
and Buffalo Bill,
Mom, Dad, and the
rest of the dead.
The computer calls to me.
But I won't answer.
It's the Sabbath, and the
rest will do us all some
good.

Today, early on a
Saturday morning, I'm
trying a little trick I
learned from Bukowski.
I put on some classical
music and I am trying
to write.
Beethoven's 5th in C minor.

I sit in my favorite chair and
watch my black cat lie on the
back of the loveseat and
watch the snowfall.
She looks triumphant,
but it could just be the music.
The philodendrons that hang
around the house and the
bamboo plants seem happier, too.
There's no hope for the palm tree.

Well, the main thing is that I put the
pen to paper, and Beethoven,
my cat and you came along for the
ride.

Maybe the cellos, violins, and
trombones will fertilize my
creativity.
Now, my other two cats have joined
the fun.
They wrestle by the heater and laugh at
all the fat, rich *******.

I had been sober for
awhile and was getting that
itch to drink.
I couldn't recall the
degradation and misery of
the last drunk a few months
earlier.

It was spring, and I was standing
outside of the flophouse, I was
staying at.
Just then, a big sunflower of
a woman walked by.
"Hi Jenny," I said.
We had a past.
Not much of one though.
It resembled a Dali painting that
had been soaking in the rain.

We ended up in a motel with a
bottle of Absinthe.
Jenny wasn't much of a drinker,
No problem, more for me.
Jenny wasn't much of a
conversationalist, and half-lit on
robust *****, neither was I.
I walked around the room talking
about Hemingway and Van Gogh,
Fitzgerald and Picasso.
Jenny wasn't interested in them.
She wanted me to score her some dope.

She said, "If you want this *****, you
will buy me an eight ball."
I didn't.
I wanted to write, but I was too drunk.
We wanted different things and neither
of us
found them that night.
And later at about 3 am when I got
up to ****, I could have sworn I saw the
picture of Van Gogh on the box of Absinthe
laughing.

Rain splashes off the
screen door.
It's raining in
my heart
chubby little drops
splashing on my soul.
The sadness is deeper
than a lagoon,
bluer too.

There are days
it doesn't pay to
get out of bed.
Maybe,
in the next dream
I'll find my
prodigal cat.
We could listen to
Sketches of Spain,
Miles Davis knows
how to bring the lost home.

She's a black runt that
burrowed into my heart.

I picked a twisted flower in
an unkempt garden.
I kept it for a while.
Without roots, the flower
didn't last.  I barely did.

There were many  
flowers in my younger days.
I loved picking them and
keeping
them close.

In the end, they
all died or blew away.
I felt empty, blood moon
sad.

Such a young fool in
those sizzling summer
nights.
Flowers make terrible
gods.

There's a little
boy that hides in
the dark corners of
my soul.
He doesn't want to
be hurt anymore.
I spent eight years
with Beth.
For the most part,
it was hell and
constant pain.
She made nightmares
look good.
I heard the
little boy cry
late into the
silky night,
while snails got
smashed on the streets
of Ventura.

When I drank, which was often,
the little boy seemed
at peace for awhile,
while swans were
murdered in Venice,
and I tasted the ashes
of Neruda.
Years flew by
like seagulls;
up
down
and darting.
The little boy
continued to
hide in the
dark corners of my soul.

He wanted to
come out and be loved.
He was thirsty for it,
but there wasn't
any around.
It was dry, like the
deserts in hell.
It's too late for
sorries here comes
the plow.

He began to see
the pattern of life.
Some monsters walk in the light.
Vulnerability equals pain.
The little boy got mean.
And now he carries
a knife.

I sleep with my
top hat on these days.
It keeps the rabbits from
crawling out and running
away.

They are the safest close to
my brain when I sleep.
I don't want them eaten by
feral swine or to wander
off and drown in a vat of wine.

The magic show will
start soon, and I'll pull them
out when least expected.
The crowd will gasp and groan
when I saw the woman in half.

"It's just a trick,"  I yell.
"She's okay, sleight of hand...see."

They know better, the blood
isn't fake.
They see the horror of the
magician's life, even though
it entertains. We all wish it
was an illusion, but it's
showtime.

I don't
understand why
my mind
drifts to thoughts
of you, in the
spring when I'm
alone in the woods.
The dew is on the
grass, and the small
flowers begin to
bud, the petals
slippery and wet,
glistening in the
morning
sun.
The birds sing
their symphonies of
praise, and the trees,
***** and strong, reach
to the waiting sky.
The rain shoots
down, and I
rest.

In all the smashed cat in the road days of
hungover afternoons, and empty pocket
mornings, one constant wherever I was
were the trips to the library.

I read most everything back then:
Hamsun
Hemingway
Steinbeck
Fitzgerald
Eugene O’Neil, and Gogol,
and always Bukowski.
They were my lighthouse in the
abysmal fog of street life, and the
abscessed ocean of bent dreams.
The greats could always squeeze juice from
the words and I drank them down in
those lonely city libraries.  
It mixed well with the ***** and whiskey.

Some of the libraries had security guards.
Their job was to yell, “No sleeping”, as they
walked by, like witnesses at a hanging.
I dozed in those comfortable chairs,
noon light bathing me in golden peace.
I was a knight, the hero, Thomas, the great.
I hated those ******* for waking me up.
I’d rise and wander around to stay awake.  

Every time,
everywhere,
there she’d be,
my, clean, quiet, well-read, heavenly librarian.
Brown hair in a bun, large glasses, and usually
a silk blouse and tweed skirt, **** as sin.  

I watched her for hours.  I wrote about her,
the way she moved and talked and smelled of
lilies and jasmine.
I made up scenes of wild *** in the
fiction section on top of
Dostoyevsky and Joyce,
Huckleberry Finn and Tropic of Cancer.
Miller and Nin would have blushed.

I pictured her bent over the banister by the
travel book section on the third floor.
I’ve got her skirt hiked up over her ***,
and I’m in Wonderland, El Dorado, and the
Emerald City all rolled into one.
She guided me through suicidal days and made
the wait to become a writer a worthwhile utopia.

Alive
Too young to care
Busy with living loud
Born on the wind, my youth flew by
Quickly.

My 10th grade year,
Dad put my brother,
Tobin and I in a  
private school in  
Camarillo California.  
  
Mom sent us  
to live with him after  
we traded our  
education, back in  
Des Moines, for **** and  
sitting around  
listening to Led   
Zeppelin records in the  
basement.  
We had it all figured out.  
  
Before we started
a day of class, we  
went on a week-long   
skiing trip to  
Sequoia National Park.  
I loved that school.  
A passion grew in  
me for literature,   
Melville and Dickens,  
Dylan Thomas and the  
rest of the greats visited  
me in my dreams.  
They were good, gentle  
nights back then. 
 
I wrote a paper on  
Billy Budd, and received a C  
for my weak effort.  
Dad explained aspects of  
the story:  
plot  
theme  
antagonist  
protagonist  
and tragic character flaws.  
I didn’t get a C again on  
anything to do with  
literature.  
I was still inept  
with the numbers game.  
Math didn’t hold my  
Interest.  
It dog-paddled, then drowned in  
my budding poet brain.  
  
I had a gorgeous Dutch  
Girlfriend, Van Vleck or  
Van something or other.  
I acted in the play,  
and started at small   
forward on the   
basketball team.  
I even got into a  
fight with a kid for  
telling the principal that  
he sold me a little ****.  
I was suspended for a week,  
but Dad didn’t seem to  
mind that much.  

He gave me a copy of   
Don Quixote, and told   
me to write an essay a day.  
Back then, I was  
the prince of the private school.  
 I started to care about  
learning.   
The teachers taught with  
zeal and zest.  
The lust for literature was  
born in me  
beneath that smiling  
West Coast sunshine, and  
melancholy California fog.

There, in the
tide pool, dappled by
the sun is birth and death,
and the spark that continues.
It leaves mankind in the wake of regret.
What have I to do with the albatross
Or sea lion?
I can but write, while they fly and roar.
I gaze upon the Pacific from this rock,
all its mysteries and grandeur.
I am inferior, while it forever reigns with
every wave and break of light.