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will you be Atlas
and carry it as a curse

wrap it in a blanket
cozy in a purse

would you be
kind and aware
sitting in a chair
guarding it with care

or smack it on the ground
saying you've found

a medicine to the wounds
Ouch
I don’t want to be like this...

But where’s my world?
Am I holding it too?
Did I drop it into someone else’s hands?
Or did I already smack it on the ground?
Probably...

Stay away, please?
for your own safety...
the white petals from a growing
daisy. And eats them for lunch. They
say he is crazy. He lassoes the sun
with a yo-yo string. Locks it in his

dungeon in the left wing. He paints
the cornflower sky tar black. It
matched his mood and his thick
woolen slacks. He rips the

stripes off the candy canes. Builds
his house out of razors and
chains. Cuts all the trees in his
backyard. His face is brown leather

and his tummy, mustard and
lard. Some folks say he wasn't
born. He was raised from a shallow
grave in a delta wave.
"lie still and let it wash over you, the was and is and soon to be.
How frightening yet effervescent the next 24 hours. The lust, and musts of future days revert to the ancient past..."
patty m.
><
the irony!
when I am stilled,
the effervescence of me
unbounded, unleashed, and the torrential rain
of words fulfilling and departing from my interior

I am
a Grand Central Station
of trains labelled
"the was and is and soon to be''

all moving in an unscheduled mayhem,
but never crashing. never accidenting,
only accenting my racing against time,
my oldest and fiercest Super Villian,
and one just knows, never can you beat time,
time, that old rascally up his sleeve card magician,
who when shuffling the deck,
he knows
what was,
what is,
and here his red eyes gleam with satisfaction,
soon to be...

He and I,
old familiar adversaries
addicted to living.
never leave the table,
never leave a *** or
a poem on the felt,
and having always felt,
firm believed,
there will always be one more,
one more gamble, another day,
to write another poem
and turning my cards over
to reveal, to revel,
in my Royal Flush of creativity,
when time, smiling face,
with his
wild card,
**** time,
who trumps me for
it,
in possess of a Five-of-a-Kind(1)

~'
and the new players,
the young poets,
slap me on the back,
saying I had a great run,
but they don't know 'bout my
secret stash,
preprogrammed to appear,
long after these fingers
cease their tangled tango of tap dancing,
my dust,
my lusts and musts
will unstilled yet be
blowing, floating in the
soon to be
so ha!
                         nml
6:30am
Wed Sep 10
Twenty Twenty Five
(1)
The strongest hand in poker that cannot be beaten in a standard game is the Royal Flush, which consists of the Ace, King, Queen, Jack, and 10 of the same suit. It is the best possible hand in poker because it is the highest possible sequence of consecutive cards in a single suit, making it unbeatable unless there are wild cards in play, which would allow for a Five-of-a-Kind.
 Sep 10 Thomas W Case
nivek
thoughts to ever round up
corral the imagination

let words stream to the page
oceans of freedom

the winged songster
a horse with no name
I love missing you.

I am alive and surrounded by sleeplessness with this.

It may be foolish but I am a passionate woman.

My heart fills with many things and
when it’s overflowing with you I am alive.

Externally I am silent because internally I am exploding with joy to be near you.

Overwhelmed by these molecules I transform exponentially.

Watch me shake wild a concrete black cat to your waxing and waning heart while this sparkler love ignites.

These liquored lips are loose and take no excuse.

You change your reasons faster than seasons only to bare my reasons like oars.

I’m floating drunk and silly in this seasoned ocean, peppered with your eyes and salted by your skin.

Bear this in mind when your fear kills the time we have together:

This could last longer because you are the match to my flame burning these passions bright.

Let there be light.
This is your country,
Running like tea
Across a map made of clear sky.

You are a bird here.
Your kingdom rests under
Gentle wings, soft feathers.

With blooms of deep hue,
Wine colored faces
Wait to greet your bright presence.
Aside from a few thousand miles and tattoos like a grocery list,
I’m still that girl breaking horse hair on cat gut.

Full of pizzicato that rises and rests I remember hot summer night sounds.
I miss staring into red suns behind black bare trees.

Running through dark alleys full of your curls we’d sing and cough with liquored smiles.
Put my notes in an envelope and send me off with your Sunday best.
Label it with Scotch and your cigarettes.

Let our life fade into the sea, winding through the surf.
I love who I was but this is not who I am.
Pressed into books half made and abandoned, my heart collects the film of glass.

I will keep treading water, inviting you to stay with the sharks I’ve come to know.
Bestill your landlocked mind and stretch your limbs into the sea.
With wind cool and strong, I scatter my thoughts in every direction.
 Sep 10 Thomas W Case
Xasvel
Memory haunts me
I remember everything
Alzheimer's mocks me
It's terrible for them both. Those who suffer from the disease and those dear to them.
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