All of you are
such amazing poets.
And poetry has a long oral
history.

Why not start your
own youtube channel
and perform your
poetry?
Some say poetry is a
dead art.
I say it isn't.
Let's return to
our roots and scream
our poetry from the
roof tops.

So I challenge all
of you poets,
let's kick some ***
with our voices.

Hey everyone, I was just
thinking about the
fact that poetry has
a long oral tradition.
Wouldn't it be fun to
get a youtube channel and
perform your poetry?
You are all so
great, I just wonder how it
sounds with the writer
reading it.
We could support each other
and promote our writing at
the same time.

A lot can be
accomplished
when you pull 
the covers over your
head, and just listen.
Tune out all the
distractions and *******.
Let the silence guide you.

Do you see all the
colors whirling around in
your mind?
The greens and the reds?
The indigo and violet?
They are thoughts forming.
Grand, artistic, unbridled thoughts.

People will desperately
try to distract you, and keep
you from this place.
They are a stranger to it.
Phones will go off.
The crowd will knock
at the door,
don't answer, they will
always be there.

Your job is to create in
your beautiful, dark womb.
There is a spark,
electric alchemy going on.
Don't question it.
You are an artist,
and you are giving birth

Yours isn't gentle lunacy,
It's hammerhead insanity.
Great white crazy.
I'm not even safe walking on
the sand.
You ******* learned to graze on
the land.
Evolution is a *****.

I am working the
kinks out of
my you tube
channel.

But, if you
search Thomas
W. Case on
you tube,
you can watch me
recite some of
my poetry.

Meanwhile,
autumn's feral winds
blow the beggars
from my mind.
I'm just a windmill's
dream, haunted by
a thousand empty
bottles.

Sometimes a poem is a
beast you create that
***** and ****** all over
the page.It doesn't need neutered
but it does need
house broken.

To sleep the sleep of
an artist is
the best sleep ever.
All the foes lie vanquished,
and I paint words with
their blood.
All the letters spent on
the paper in
ejaculatory fashion,
like ***** to the egg.
There is no fodder from
dreams to be marshaled,
just the birth of my
creation,
when I
awake.