I woke up too early.
It was still dark out.
I tried to read some
Hunter S. Thompson, but
it made me thirsty,
not a drop in the  
place.
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.

A few nights ago my
girlfriend and
I got into it.
She bit me and
scratched my face.
We were drunk on  
wine from Argentina.
The coffee I’m  
drinking doesn’t taste
right.
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.

In the wee hours of
the morning
I decided
to shave my head.
It took four razors, but
I finally got the
job done.
I looked in the
mirror,
and a stranger peered
back at me;
a head like Gandhi
and a face like Marciano.
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.

Yesterday
my girlfriend and I went  
on a shoplifting spree.
I stole coffee,
a couple of books,
a hat, denture glue, and
a **** ring.
She’s a much better thief than
me.
She took
razors, two tapestries, laundry soap and  
trash bags, makeup, shampoo
and coffee that doesn’t taste funny.
As the sun gently
kisses the horizon
and begins to bathe
Iowa City in golden light,
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.

Tomorrow morning
I have to be in
court.
A month ago I stole
some wine and got caught.
My day of reckoning has
almost arrived.
I should just get a
fine that I will
never pay, but
with these things,
one never knows.
The judge could be  
hung over or constipated
or worse yet, he could have
read my poetry.
I really wish I were in  
Puerto Rico.

Why do some women worry so
much about the
outside?
Clean car,
clean dishes,
clean toilet,
clean face, clean little
bill of health,
clean credit rating,
clean dog, clean teeth,
clean floor?
What about the
inside?
The heart, the soul,
the conscience?

Hey, no.
I’m busy cleaning,
cleaning the carpet, the sink,  
the garden.
For God’s sake
what would the neighbors
think?

I have to clean the
tables, the ceilings, your
fingernails, ears and crotch.
And the bed that
we copulate in,
it’s all *****.
*****, *****, *****.
and the mirror…
just look at it.

Like Bonnie and Clyde,
we rode the
night like thieves.
We hit most of
the stores in town.
I’d get the wine and
she’d get her
beauty products and
cleaning supplies.
She acted as if the
cameras didn’t apply to
her.
I was all about
the *****.
Often I wouldn’t even know
what I was
getting.  When we got  
home
it would be a
surprise to both of us.
“Oh look honey,
merlot, what goes  
good with that?”
Or,
“Have you ever had
pinot noir?”
Stealing with her was
such a rush
like that first line of  
really good *******.
We felt untouchable,
invincible,
until one night
we found out we weren’t.

She ******* constantly about
cigarette smoke.
Of course, when she’s drunk, she  
smokes all mine.
And while she’s complaining
she’s taking snipes that
I wake up at six in the
morning to dig out of
ashtrays—walking miles to get.

It’s laughable.
She sits there with a  
***** **** hanging
loosely from her hand and
says,
“I don’t like my
apartment smelling like
cigarettes.”
I say,
“Then don’t smoke.”
She says,
“Why don’t you buy some
real cigarettes—I’ll show
you what real
cigarettes taste like.”

Then she storms
off, all *** and hair flying.
She comes back with a
pack of smokes and a
cigar box.
“I paid two dollars for this, you can
put all your ***** butts in here.”

It’s actually beautiful.
It’s made of cedar and
would look great with
a cactus in it.

There are wood shavings at
the bottom, her
money would have been
better spent on
a dollar pack of rolling papers.

I’m field stripping the
snow embossed butts and using
cut up pieces of the
yellow pages to roll
cigarettes that I’m able to smoke.
She doesn’t have
a clue.
She only smokes when
she’s drinking.

I sit here in
county jail sporting the
orange jumpsuit and I
write more poems and  
memoirs in a week than
I’ve written in a year.
It feels ******* when
I’m pounding out the
word and the line.

When you’re homeless and
the temperature is minus ten,
jail isn’t a punishment,
it’s a reward.
I got busted for public intox two days in
a row, and again three
weeks ago.
The state remembered—they
recommended 30 days,
the judge gave me two weeks.

Every time I go to jail
I’m very drunk,
and by morning I’m
coming down hard.
I remind the guards of
my predicament—the danger of
withdrawal seizures.
They say, “We are aware of
your condition, Mr. Case.”
And within a couple of
hours
I’m on Librium,
making detox bearable.

Within a couple of days the
drunken haze dissipated
and the need to create returned.
I got their tiny safe
pen (impossible to stab someone with),
and I went to work.
I looked out my little
window in my cell and I
saw a male bald eagle gliding
lazily over downtown.
I felt as free as he was.

My friends are dropping like flies,
and by dropping, I mean dying.
I mean no longer trying to
fly in a world that wanted
them grounded.
Perry drowned,
and Greg was
found on Highway 6 hit by a
minivan—***** in hand.
They say the best laid
plans of mice and men oft go
astray—that’s an understatement.
My life plays out like
a scene from  Dante’s Inferno.
Abandon all hope.
A month back, Kristin dies from
too much dope.
Tibbs goes out from a  
stroke
or some kind of strange brain
malfunction.
I did C.P.R. at the
great wall,
the junction where
the drunks drink and the
dreamers scheme.
It doesn’t work—he goes into a coma.
No more roaming the streets with
my Sancho,
no more
beating the heat with
stolen wine in the  
summer slick shade by
the river,
trying to save the
last sliver of our  
humanity—only to walk head
long into a ****** up
destiny.
Providence can be a
punk *** ***** when it
wants to be.
See,
I’m not fooled by
life’s strong arm tactics,
one day my friends are fine;
the next,
they’re in caskets—and I’ll  
be a basket case when it’s
all said and done.
****
standing still and
****  
the sun.
**** the
moon and the stars
and the ******
and the bars.
****
This silly world
I’m done.

She steals candles from
the craft store.
I stole a ceramic
rooster for her and said,
“Here’s your ****.”
We rock the stores like
they’re our *****.
It’s like an itch that
has to be scratched.
We get drunk, and
It’s game on—it’s a high like
******* in public,
like that first
shot when you’re
shaking
and sick.
Someday, it will all
come crashing down,
but until then,
it’s the flash of
lightning and the crown.