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dust forgets the footprints it holds
stars bleed themselves dry for nothing
and still, we sing.

we sing with broken voices
through neon that buzzes its last apology
through gravity that pulls and lets go like tired hands.

we sing because the mirror lies,
because the air tastes of plastic prayers,
because the dreams are old enough to crumble when touched.

we sing for the ghost casinos,
for the red velvet burnouts,
for the craters we once thought were gardens.

we sing not for remembrance,
not for mercy,
but for the small, aching pleasure
of being real
in a world built of reflections.

the lights flicker.
the neon dies.
the song drifts
into the empty dark
like a spark too small to see —
but still, it burns.

and for once,
that is enough.
(for Sarah Glover, last singer of Mars)

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5044822/the-last-song-on-mars/
Lastly the shadow in the eye
Spoken by the sick one
His glances speak

Dream-colored
Dead language
No one belongs to us!

The shadows encircle the sick one
Sweat-soaked his forehead shines
Reflecting ancient beings

We buy up cities!
Conquer entire streets
Victors from ****** battles

Shadows lie in the way
Thus the sick one stumbles
Above him a black sky

We have won!
War of the glass swords
Whisper us one more wish...

But the sick one sleeps
For the next thousand years
A red, true sleep
The Sick One
The sun is setting,
On another windy day,

Cold and brittle,
Perfect for a *** roast!
We'd take to the grill,

But the weather had other plans.

Thankful for every passing cloud,

They reflect the sun so well.
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.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEeNcBC_mnM
Here is a link to my YouTube channel where I read my poetry from my recently published books, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems and It's Just a Hop, Skip, and Jump to the Madhouse, available on Amazon.com
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.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEeNcBC_mnM
Here is a link to my YouTube channel, where I read poetry from my recently published books, Seedy Town Blue Collected Poems and It's Just a Hop, Skip, and Jump to the Madhouse, which are available on Amazon.

www.thomaswcase.com
I'm not always a good first impression—
sometimes my mouth staggers out
before my kindness gets dressed.
Sometimes I laugh at the wrong time
or forget someone's nickname
but remember their favorite color.

I know sometimes I can come off
as a misplaced sentence
in the middle of a calm paragraph—
but know I'm not the type to edit others.

Sometimes—
I look like a bold question mark
in a room full of exclamation points.
but I am not confused—
just hard to react
with built-in soft-spoken backup plans.

I want you to know—
I'm on your team even if it's left-handed
even when I blink too slow
or speak too fast and too long
stand too far away
don't say the right thing
at the right time—
or add thank you at the end of a sentence.

I may be awkward—
but I'm real and care loudly
even when it doesn't sound like it.
What is happiness?
I dare say it's the early parts of spring
Where the blooms first start their beautiful display
Pink Hyacinths, cherry blossoms, dandelions
The eager fluttering of buttery butterflies
Or the curious buzzing pauses of a bumble bee.

The green buds on ancient oaks
Or the tiny growths of hydrangeas,
It's in the beauty of warmer days, sun bathed
And a milder evening by the bonfire.

Happiness is in company kept,
A cold beer and smoked BBQ,
It is the music we dance to or annoy the neighbors with.
It’s in the good times and memories
Creating new ones as we come together.

Happiness is a dirt or bridled trail
Verdant walls of trees and those arboreal things
Squirrels rustling in susurrus steps
And bird singing their symphonies
Bidding for applause in their skyward stage

Happiness is blue skies
With cotton ball clouds,
And sunbeams touching down
To highlight the cricket fiddling.

Happiness is in the littlest things
We barely notice, as if it were as common as a breath
But if you disconnect, let the stress melt
And focus on how alive our earthen mother is
You would see, in every step, on every twirl
Happiness is one sunlit day away.
One can never truly explain happiness accurately, but this is what makes me happy, currently.
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.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEeNcBC_mnM
Here's a link to my YouTube channel where I read my poetry from my recently published books.

www.thomaswcase.com
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