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.

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.

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.