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I sleep with my glasses,
so, I can see in my dreams
the moment you left me,
it's all part of the scene.
So, the jockeys, they need me.
I know they will bleed me.
And it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.

The buzzards and seagulls,
they know what you've done.
You said, come on boy,
let's go have some fun.
But that look in your eyes
was full of goodbyes
and now, I'm all but done.
I'm full of regrets
but, it's just one more bet.
And it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.

The clowns and the hookers
got nothing for me.
They took all my money,
oh boy can't you see?
There's just one more bet,
and I'm full of regrets.
and it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.

Bukowski and Hopper
look down on me smiling.
They've been out to sea.
They've been past the islands.
I'm tired of running
and I'm tired of standing still.
Another pill won't do it
and it's time for me to go.
And it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.

You took all my money
on a day that was sunny
and you know them old clowns,
they really aren't funny.
So, I head to the track
to win it all back,
and it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.
I wrote a song about regret and hope.
I'm happy to announce the release of my newest limited edition book, Rise Up Collected Poems and Short Stories. Here's a link.
https://booksie.chainletter.io/i/thomaswcase888
I guess I shouldn't be
surprised.
In the
beginning, the women are
attracted to the light,
the writing.
But after a while,
they hate it.
They get jealous;
as if I had another
lover.
I suppose I do.
And when I'm in my stride
I don't give them the
attention that they crave and
desire.
When the words and
lines are flowing
the women seem so needy
so greedy.
I guess it's not fair that
I devote my heart to
writing--but truth be told,
they knew what they
were getting
themselves into.
I'm happy to announce the release of my new limited edition book, Rise Up Collected Short Stories and Poems, here's a link. (Just copy and paste in the address bar.)
https://www.youtube.com/redirect?event=comments&redir_token=QUFFLUhqbjRsX3laOVRVNV9GbnJiWnEzalJ2ZEdoWnZfZ3xBQ3Jtc0ttU2s0a005dWpBWGVSYV9ZN1dPNWNVMkJUWlQ3UUMyNEl4UHpHeFYzR2ppZl9Za2U0WF9lblRnaUF6OU9uSXByRHpHUGxYX21YMVRTcGY0TnNzS3F3akZLNG1tcnpfcGtEN1hoYXRrXzFGWDdoU3B4SQ&q=https%3A%2F%2Fl.facebook.com%2Fl.php%3Fu%3Dhttps%253A%252F%252Fbooksie.chainletter.io%252Fb%252F9b87c7a2-1228-4a0e-a1cd-eaedcf3bb305%253Ffbclid%253DIwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTAAAR2HWCBNpWJzF3YCJxYpx3QHVVqjC2zDBWGAYTV5Q2pFxy4c1U-uVtPvpVs_aem_Ab0letZTORF_Tpb58ibNucgfLL9aXUtPYQbDoxvEKzPn-183aXIsEU5MbEjQT4_HlWmAsUrU2xKMriL9uDIn98GL%26h%3DAT1f5xgZtipfB1LKQCtlErMTeCqWVLE38LmzWMG8rmjMRRJNwlAFkJo-ISGujrv0M1Yp6XTzLSQtpWe7PAj_K9EgfJLAqYdXWjAGeymmF2LvxzW3MpER0YXXa5FLl3iUnrW7%26__tn__%3D-UK-R%26c%5B0%5D%3DAT2MQEK-V4lhQzS8BWhV0CpE4wodA_5KnqIxlQI8qWtMIN2NI2J62ZlYgr9u4Pu2ZzVPUEA76T_CWasj6HqDPlo33jsQCtVkfutqqEQHyoJB0YQ6EQmCr0r2WqGmv5LiUCfnuzDLVNv0CXak-KJP46rdh7C3JuB_LT6CCqAGRErxtBRi8m1gTtAqGh8AeRUq
Give me lazy lithium
days; soft asylum and Cheshire madness.
This sadness only
lasts
awhile, with sun burnt
smiles and ocean mist
kisses...

Give me sweet Mai Tai
nights, gentle lunacy.
The Mad Hatter moon
laughs at me,
and the fog
only lasts a
little while.

Just one more time,
please stay a while.
I'm pleased to announce the release of my new book, Rise Up Collected Poems and Short Stories, it's available on Booksie.com
Here is a link, just copy and paste it into the address bar.
https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fbooksie.chainletter.io%2Fb%2F9b87c7a2-1228-4a0e-a1cd-eaedcf3bb305%3Ffbclid%3DIwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTAAAR2HWCBNpWJzF3YCJxYpx3QHVVqjC2zDBWGAYTV5Q2pFxy4c1U-uVtPvpVs_aem_Ab0letZTORF_Tpb58ibNucgfLL9aXUtPYQbDoxvEKzPn-183aXIsEU5MbEjQT4_HlWmAsUrU2xKMriL9uDIn98GL&h=AT1f5xgZtipfB1LKQCtlErMTeCqWVLE38LmzWMG8rmjMRRJNwlAFkJo-ISGujrv0M1Yp6XTzLSQtpWe7PAj_K9EgfJLAqYdXWjAGeymmF2LvxzW3MpER0YXXa5FLl3iUnrW7&__tn__=-UK-R&c[0]=AT2MQEK-V4lhQzS8BWhV0CpE4wodA_5KnqIxlQI8qWtMIN2NI2J62ZlYgr9u4Pu2ZzVPUEA76T_CWasj6HqDPlo33jsQCtVkfutqqEQHyoJB0YQ6EQmCr0r2WqGmv5LiUCfnuzDLVNv0CXak-KJP46rdh7C3JuB_LT6CCqAGRErxtBRi8m1gTtAqGh8AeRUq
It doesn't seem like
Christmas.
Mom and Dad are gone,
the kids are grown; There's no
snow on the ground, and
I'm in the psych ward again.
There is a dead dog loneliness
about the place.
All the patients are asleep,
and it's too early to get
my medicine.
Coffee has replaced
***** in my diet, and
I feel like I'm in a
battle without a shield.
Even the pen I wield
isn't as sharp as it
used to be.
Check out my you tube channel where I read my poetry.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W0-hHZ6O8u0
A tenderhearted rage flows from my
pen, like the Mississippi river after six
months of a hard rain.  
Suffering released, I long
for peace, as I grab the pen like
a ****** grabs the syringe, like my
very life depends on it because it
probably does.

The passion that flows within
my veins give a voice to my
soul when the pen vomits
words on the paper, like a
drunk the morning after a
night on the town, trying to
drown the memory of her.

I'm bent on writing because the
world's dim lighting cast shadows on
everything that mattered to me.
I'm shattered you see by
circumstances beyond my control.
Life just seems to roll right over me,
but I take my plight with the fight of
a soldier, whose battle cry is:
furor scribendi, a rage to write; because
in the revealing comes the ultimate
healing and that ******* light will
never die.
furor scribendi is Latin for a mania for writing.  Link to my you tube channel.
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC7n3PXaA5szQKvZ8VlkcxTA

check out my youtube channel

check out my youtube channel.
Mom took my brother and
I to the cemetery when
we were kids.
Her mother and grandma
were there underneath the
grass and dirt.
The spring breeze felt
good on my face.
We put carnations and
lilacs on all the graves.
She told us stories about
our dead relatives.
The tombstones, with the
dates seemed ancient and
final.

After flowering all the
graves, we went to
the pond and fed
the ducks and swans.
There was a fire in
their eyes.
They were always
hungry.
They gobbled the bread
and swam in circles.

When we became
teenagers, Mom took
us to the cemetery, and
taught us how to drive.
She said it was
safer there.
We couldn't ****
anyone.

Many years later
I took my little sons to
cemetery.
I showed them all
the graves and told
the old family stories.
"That's your grandma,"  I said,
pointing to the tombstone.
"She brought me here,
when I was your age."

My oldest son, Zach, who was
seven at the time said,
"When I get old,
I'm going to bring my kids
here to visit the family.
Will you come with us, Daddy?"
"Sure", I said.
Let's feed the swans.
Check out my you tube channel where I read from my recent book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems.
Here's a link.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W0-hHZ6O8u0
In a dream,
I see the raven
fly into the night;
his dark song beckoning
from his beak.
Shiny black wings promise
flight,
but to where?

I watch as the
pair of doves bellow
their songs of love
and with a rush of
angels wings
fly heavenward.

I hear the
bluebirds and
sparrows little hum of
hope fade softly into
the afternoon sun,
and I wonder,
what does it all mean?

Then I see them, and
many other kinds of
birds, with beautiful bright
colors,
Parakeets and parrots,
eagles and herons...even
a dodo and they are
all rotting in cages.
Some of the cages are
open,
others are closed,
but all the birds are
lying on their sides,
sad dead eyes,
staring blankly,
finished and flightless.
and I get it.
Check out my you tube channel where I read my poetry from my recent book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, available on Amazon.com
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W0-hHZ6O8u0
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