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Boomers—
children of the Greatest,
born from rations and sacrifice,
from gardens grown in war-torn soil,
from metal drives and blackout nights—
their parents knew how to share a country,
to fight a common enemy,
to win not for one,
but for all.

And yet—
these children of victory
grew up in row houses,
drove a new Chevy every year,
took college on their parents’ dime,
bought homes in their twenties,
summered where the lakes still whispered
and the air still felt free.

They were handed a future
and sold it back to us
at twenty-two percent interest.

Now—
they bring us back to fascism
with a flag in one hand,
and a stock portfolio in the other.

We—
the debt-shackled,
rent-bound,
told to hustle, to pray,
to apply for affordable housing
like it’s a prize
instead of a life sentence.

They say:
We did it,
why can’t you?

But they never paid the price.

Their gods wear gold watches,
ride rockets to nowhere.
They kneel before billionaires
as if mammon were holy.

Remember—
the camel,
the needle’s eye?

You entitled architects of ruin,
your parents would not know you.
Your children do not want you.

You scorched the earth
so you could golf in winter
and warm your empty houses
with fire from the future.

We are ash.
You are the match.

I dream of my grandmother—
her apron stained with sacrifice—
asking me softly,
“Was it my fault?”

No, Grandma.
It was never you.
It was never them.
It was the wealth.
The sickness.
The myth of more.
The greed wrapped in red, white, and blue.

America,
you were never lost.
You were stolen.
By the worst generation
who mistook comfort for victory
and called it freedom.
April 23, 2025
Pull down the shades—
no one can see.
I’m locked in with you.
What’s on TV?

I’ll tear off my nails
to lie with you on the couch,
rip out my hair,
bite my tongue—
ouch.

I’ll pour you a drink,
do every dish,
shove a spoon in my eye
I'll be your *****.
2025
Casey Hayward Apr 18
Annette’s hands are candle wax—
at least as far as shadows are concerned,
twisting in ways that are non-harming.

She said she went to a girls’ reform school
in West Berlin,
where the bookshelves were dusty scars
so old she forgot—ugh, what’s his name?
They were torn from their families.

We had a common interest
in destroying the vapid
with how much we drank
in her New York apartment.

We knew with total certainty
we were witnessing
the decline of Western civilization—
of course Evan still needed to go on walks.
Otherwise, he’s an Ignoble weasel.
Without meaning.

So we write what goes through our heads:
there’s hope for tomorrow
because of Iggy Pop—
the dead future
with makeup
but contained.

Panic!

“How do you feel about fictionalizing the crisis?” I asked.
Unhappiness has a beginning.

Okay then—dominate me.

When something reminds her of the past,
she focuses
on her hands.
2025
Casey Hayward Apr 16
JOY IS

creating
and remembering

insignificance.

JOY IS

loving
and
remembering loss.

JOY IS

wanting it
and getting it and
paying for it.

JOY IS

Being in a moment
And for a second forgetting
you can’t go back.

JOY IS

a cupcake
with calories.

JOY IS

working
and giving away
your time.

JOY IS

children—
and worrying
about children.

JOY IS

flowers
and dead flowers.

JOY IS

you’re here!
Until they’re gone.

JOY IS

a moment
stamped
permanently
behind your eyelids.

you look for it.
a two-sided coin.

alone
and together,

young and old,
old and new
and experienced.

beauty
for now.

in a stranglehold—
JOY always escapes
laughing.

you can’t hold onto joy.
JOY escapes.
2025
Casey Hayward Apr 14
Clothes with strings.
Clothes with metal strap adjusters.
Shoes with laces.
Belts.
Drawstrings on sweatpants.

Hairclips.
Pen caps.
Floss.
Plastic spoons—
they keep them in their pockets.
You have to ask.
They have to watch you throw them away.
Still not sure what someone did
to make that a rule.

Papers with staples.
Wire-bound notebooks.
Soap pumps—
or any pumps.
No perfume bottles.
No aerosol sprays.

No guitar
unless you have a prescription.

Phone chargers.
Anything with batteries.
Anything with glass.
Anything with cords.
No headphones.

No razors (duh).
No scissors.
No tweezers.
No nail clippers.
No Q-tips.
No mirrors.
No makeup.

No keys.
No coins.
No lighters.
No matches.

No books with hardcovers.
No sharp pencils.
No plastic bags.

No caffeine after 3.
No movies over PG.
No news.
No calls.
No last names.
No privacy.

30 minutes between checks
All day, all night.

No door knobs.
No way out.
No where left to go.
April 14, 2025
Casey Hayward Apr 14
Not yet one of the women
in the dead field,
broken, dry.

Still alive, but with the
trauma brain of
one who has hummed deep into the ocean
and had their face slapped.

While all the girls are busy
drowning cats headlong—
singing songs she never heard,
laughing like they’d never buried nothin’.

She made the men feel less like men.
That went on for sixteen years—
until they released her
to till the soil.

Arrangements were made with the chief psychologist,
with direction from Him—
who has all knowledge and power
to leave her there.

Bent over with the grey-haired women,
she’s wishin’ for no further fertilization—
freeze, if necessary.

While all the girls are busy
drowning cats headlong—
singing songs she never heard,
laughing like they’d never buried nothin’.

A cross between the four fields—
she will not be one of the women there;
or dead. Or think back.

She feels for it still—
scraping at the rocks,
her beating heart.

Maybe she can
continue,
as long as her thoughts flow freely,
humming through the noise.

She might remember
how to love herself—
that’s all she has left.
That’s her only chance.
April 13. 2025
Casey Hayward Apr 13
A bird fallen from his tree,
wings broken,
chest rising in uneven panicked gasps
half in a mud puddle

disgusted them.
No song left in his throat,
no color in his feathers.
Probably diseased.
No longer hopeful,
no longer a thing to be admired.

They looked up from the ragged pile of feathers
drawn only to the sky-
to the soaring.
They had no use
for the broken one at their feet.

He lay there,
not dead,
but forgotten.
His pain
too heavy, too honest,
too close to the end.

And they looked away.
Pretended he had never flown,
never sang,
never mattered.

And in that silence,
he writhed.
The mask of beauty long shed,
his frailty exposed
to boots and blindness alike.

He had fallen.
His panicked fluttering body of tiny hollow bones
in the gutter of the world,
breathing his last breaths about to die.
He fell out of the sky.

And they stepped over him—
And on him—
with the same indifference.

Until he stopped moving.
April 13 2025
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