That bubble of a moon is
playing peek-a-boo behind
the wispy night sky.
Confirming to me
everyone's lunacy.
Words stick to the
roof of my mouth
like peanut butter.
It could have been
a better world,
I should have been a
better man.

January snowflakes
are like guilt falling from
the sky.
little frozen starfish...
cold and raw on
the soul, and tongue.

Winter will soon slip into
spring, all dressed in
green; bouquet nights and
the rebirth of love.
Snakes gliding through
the grass.
But for now, we deal
with ice and snow,
slick roads and cold
hearts.

I was on the bus the
other day.
The driver had a
slippery scowl pasted
on her chubby face.
My mask had inched
down on my nose, and she
yelled, "Put your mask
on or you will be off the bus."

I was already having a terrible day.
My asthma was acting up,
I could hardly breathe, and I had
just put my beloved
dog to sleep.
I miss her, but she slipped
away peacefully.

I rang the bell to get off at
my stop, as I chewed my
gum in passive anger.
I stood up and walked toward
the front of the bus.
The aisle was slick from
the snow and ice.
As I neared the exit door,
I took the gum out of my
mouth, so that I could throw
it away, but things went
horribly awry.

I slipped on a wet
spot, and to catch
myself, I firmly planted
my gum hand on the back
of the driver's head.
She had short hair, but still,
the *** of gum was now
embedded in her golden
locks.
I'm sure a haircut is
her near future.

Since then, I intend
to tread softly and cautiously,
and just maybe,
she does too.

The silly minutes
rage by like a
falling cuckoo clock.
Dilapidated dreams are
bent and burnt like
autumn leaves.

**** the cliches.
Time hurts, like a
gaping wound.
Hold it close, and
value every precious
second.

On a day that was
fraught
with anxiety and anger,
I sailed on
to the
other side.
The two pens that
blew up in my hand
foreshadowed the
prolific writing
streak to come.
Six poems today,
a personal best.
Bukowski would be
proud.
He might even
wonder
How I did it without
******
***** and
cigarettes.

It was easy.
I had bluebirds for
lunch, and listened
to Vivaldi.
I just let the telephone
ring
ring
ring

Some poems seem to write
themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.

Your love is like a frozen bird, a
feathered stone falling from the sky.
I wish it didn't die.
It should be flying, and soring, and
healing, against the warm blaze of
the afternoon sun--weaving and
diving through the coolness of the clouds.
But it's gone, and all it can do is
plummet and take a few more
birds out, on its way down.

He rolls like the
river,
always on the move.
I said,
"What are you afraid of, boy?"
He said,
"Nothing; I just can't stay still."
I said,
"They got meds for that."

It's in my bones, I gotta
keep going.
Knapsack ...no sack,
don't matter, just me and
those highways.
I said, well, it cost you everything;
your house, your wife,
don't you want to settle
down sometimes?
Nope, he said, as he turned
his back and headed west
towards the desert.
His face to the sun.

You will meet
people
in life who
love to keep score.
"I've done this for you, so
you should do that for me."
They keep a mental ledger.
They're pathetic.
Nothing is ever done out of
the goodness of their heart.
Their mind clicks with
records and accounts.
They are slaves to the
almighty penny.
Nothing you do will
ever
count anyway.
You're always in
the red.

There is a
buzzing to my
busyness.
My mind refuses
to be at ease.
It happens when I
try to
read or sleep.

Doing Always.

Where did the
playground go?
I think it split for
Brazil with the
squirrels.
We are all nuts.

There is a beauty that
comes from walking a
clover laden field, or a
path in the woods and feeling
the autumn breeze and
smelling the wildflowers.
You are so alive.
There is an aching pain
as sharp and vivid as the
beauty, some knowledge in the
fiber of your spirit, that you
won't hold it forever.

Death walks with you silently.
It bides the times...so patient.

You are aware, so keen to
the fact that if you could
consume the beauty, the
honeysuckle, clover and brilliant
orange and pink of the sunset,
you might put death off for a while.
You do it in the heartbeat of your
sweet green youth, and you
keep walking, eyes wide open.

Listen here, miss crazy,
Every Breath I Take, my soul
screams, Don't Stand so Close
to Me.  I want to escape.
Maybe to an Island, where
the only contact with your
madness will be by a
Message in a Bottle.

So please, Roxanne, for the
last time, there was no
Synchronicity between us.
Haunt someone else with
your, Ghost in the Machine
the mumbo jumbo and your
Do Do Do, Da Da Da.
no longer works.

As a child, the backyard was
my sanctuary and my
playground.
I climbed the soft
pine tree and crawled to
the top of the garage.
I stood and gazed at all the
houses and streets.
I felt rich.

My mom had a brown
jewelry box shaped like
a treasure chest.
It reminded me of
pirates and adventure.
I filled it with
football cards
gum
candy bars
family pictures, and a few
coins.

I found a small shovel
and buried it in the
backyard close to the
pine tree.
I pretended to forget
where it was.
A week or so later, I
suggested to my best friend,
Wally, that we should
search my yard for buried treasure.

Of course, we found it.
I acted surprised.
We celebrated.
All these years later,
I realize that my treasure,
then and now, is imagination.
I'm a wealthy man.

We lived for the
next drink; the elixir to
erase the memories of
a thousand cruel dawns.
It took work when we
were broken and bedraggled.
Creativity and thirst drove
us through the day.

"Do you have anything to pawn?"

"Hey, why don't we stop by the
old carnival guy's place, he's
always good for a belt."

"Big Brenda will you give you a
10 spot to go down on her,
are you
up for it?"

The **** we did to stay liquid smooth.
We redeemed cans for nickels, It took
hundreds to get a bottle.
In and out of dumpsters filled with
the most vile trash imaginable.
Me and those aluminum cowboys,
knee-deep in the filth just to
get a drink.

Winter was bad, frostbitten hands and
hearts, but summer was worse.
Something about the way the sun
cooked the trash had a hellish putrid
effect on the soul.
That smell was the seed of my
sobriety.

Writing is my lighthouse when
I'm lost at sea in the
dark fog
among the sirens singing their
seductive songs.
It is my net
that catches fish to feed
me when I'm starving and afraid.
An albatross silently looms, while
waves swell and break against my
raft.

The kraken yawns and waits,
but the words and lines tow
me safely to shore.

The efficiency room days were
the worst and the best.
Broke and bent,
sick and deranged.
Disheveled dreams, like
horses with broken legs.

There was an occasional
miracle.
A forgotten five-dollar
bill crumpled in the
front pocket of some *****
jeans, lying by the fake
plant and a copy of Hamsun's
Hunger, long overdue from
the library.
The fiver would buy a
pint of cheap *****.
My nerves settled for a
moment.

Friends seem to drift
away by the month.

"Where's Johnny?"

"He froze down at the Raccoon River."

"Oh ****, he was always good for a snort."

"Have you seen Sue lately?"

"The cirrhosis finally took her."

"*******, I used to get drunk and
tell her I loved her, while she gave me head."

Poverty and death drank with us in
those cheap rooms,
Singing sad songs and songs
of victory.
Battles were won and lost
and great debates waged in our
addled minds.
We took care of each other the best
we knew how.
Life was just a myth.

Music isn't the same anymore.
The purity and grit are gone.
It's mechanical and cold.
I remember the days of
records and record players.
The crack and pop, the
sizzling booming bass that
rumbled in my soul.

I think of a song, let's say
something by Zeppelin.
I close my eyes and smell
the ****, see the
blacklight poster on
the brick basement walls.
I lift up the needle and
ramble on.

A strange pattern for
writing has come
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.

I can't get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away,
or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.

I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don't cry and try not to worry.
I'll bring you to life.

I cuddled up with
a metaphor that was
caught in the corner of
my room.
I dressed it in the
silk of kings, and fed
it from the fractured
trees of innocence.
Low-hanging fruit of
despair gets us
every time.

What happened to your heart?
It used to be so strong.
When did these **** nights
get so ****** long

You're my Lady of ashes,
and I'm all burnt up.
You threw me in the fire;
And my soul has had enough.
I've had enough...
I've had enough,

I've had enough
Yeah.

One of the first times I
went to jail, it was in
Polk County for
public intox.
Drunk in public.
I was homeless for years,
where else was I supposed
to get drunk?

They took me to the
station booked me, and gave
me my phonecall.
I called the bail bonds.
They wanted collateral.
I didn't have anything.
To act tough, I said,
"*******." and hung up.

The cop asked if I felt suicidal.
I didn't but in my drunken
stupor, I said,
"I wish I were dead, you ******* pig."

My next steps were to a small
room with a drain in the middle of
the floor.  They had me strip all my
clothes off and gave me a paper gown.
It was the worst ten hours in jail I
ever spent.
Then, I did wish I was dead.

I was released the next morning.
Kind of sober, and kind of glad to
be alive.
I changed into my clothes.
I found two valiums in my back pocket.
I took them quickly and thought I
need to find a safer place to
get drunk.

Nobody knows when
love will roll in and
waltz with your crippled
soul.
Nobody knows when
the chickens will come
home, or when the dog
will have its day.

I heard of a place where
silence blossoms into
flowers of wisdom, but
when I ask for directions,
nobody knows.

I taste the sadness of
the sky in every poisoned
drop of rain.
I was born to swallow it.
To be consumed by the
gray expanse.
I ask for the antidote,
the cure.
Nobody Knows.

What happened to the
street signs, the picket fences,
all the love and empty spaces?
People play games, and only
traces of humanity remain.
How do I pull the cord on
this parachute?
Nobody Knows.

Where did the literary
giants write their masterpieces?
Thoughts like this plague
me when my mind stews.

I heard that Hemingway
stood to write.
Did any of them write on
the toilet?
Straining to ****...
"Call me Ishmael"
Could that have been the genesis
for Moby ****?

I like to write in bed, sleep
competes with the creative
process, but I keep coffee on
my nightstand.
I prop myself with
Hawkeye pillows, and
arrange the vapes.
Cigarettes are gone, but the
nicotine addiction remains.

No ***** to spill on
the pages, and no woman to
vie for my affection.
Tonight, I make love to
the page.

There are days
when the fat
rain beats the
tent like a snare
drum.
Sleep is impossible,
a distant
memory from youth.
Beautiful flowers die,
and green isn't quite
green enough.
It turns to olive brown,
then black.
People don't behave
and we can't make them.
I hope there is
rest when it's all
said and done.

Of all the literary
devices, my favorite
one is living.
There's no substitute.

As poets, we pull back the
curtain to our view of life.
You can shape your craft as
you go.
Metaphors will come all
over the page.
Your imagery will become
pencil-sharp and vivid.
Be patient.

If you don't have to
write, it will be easier if
you choose not to.
There are more enjoyable
activities:
***
Eating a lobster at dawn
Fishing
Swimming
Playing with your dog
or cat
*******
traveling.
Even getting your teeth
pulled can be less frustrating.

But if you must write,
you will.
Try not to ***** when
you are sick to your
stomach.

Paint a picture with
words.
Frame it with phrases.
Shine a light into the
vast darkness of mankind's
soul.
Be the light.

Hope migrates to
sunny island shores.
There is no sorrow,
roses always bloom,
and the birds of paradise
fly forever free.
The salty ocean
cleanses the rot
from the skin
and the heart.

It didn't matter if it was
August, and the air felt like an
oven on broil, or if it was
February, and the dumpsters
were icecicles to the soul.
We needed *****, and since we
didn't have jobs, the cans, at
5 cents a piece were our
aluminum tickets to sweet relief.
The magic click.
Enough cans meant a bottle of
whiskey
*****
gin,
anything to dull the
sharp, vivid pain of life.

We sifted through
cat ****
catsup
***** diapers
discarded ***** mags,
and all the other
garbage from the
rich and the poor.

One winter morning,
I threw back a heavy metal lid,
and there was a fat
raccoon looking up at me.
If Bacchus or Dionysus were
smiling, we found a
full bottle.
It happened once in
a while during summer when
the college kids headed home.

Miles of walking,
freezing or burning up,
We were the aluminum
cowboys.

We became friends later.
On that day we were
combatants.
Two kids trying to
prove their manhood.

I circled left, shot a quick
jab.
I missed and Doug laughed.
He hit me fast with a right.
Laughed again.

I circled right, this time my
jab landed.
There was a gush of
blood from his nose.
He wiped at it, and said,

My ******* sister hits
harder than that.
I hit him again.

I'll bet she doesn't hit
harder than that, I said.
You'd lose that bet, Doug said.

Mr Jester came running out of
his house.
You boys quit fighting and shake
hands right now...I want you to
say something nice about each other.
He motioned towards me.

Well, Sir, Doug here has a tough sister.
She hits harder than most boys,
at least that's what I heard.
Doug grinned.

Oh, a regular Marciano, huh Doug?

Oh yes, sir.
She can be a real mean ***** when she
wants to be.

Mr Jester said,
Hey, watch your language you
little degenerate.
Who do you think you are,
John Dillinger?
Doug muttered some
sort of apology.

Go on, the old man said, it's
your turn.
"Tommy boy here has a
great curve ball.
He got five strikeouts last week."

"Hey, that's great son, you gonna be
in the major leagues when you grow up?"
Yes, Sir, I said.

Someone was mowing their lawn, and
the smell of fresh-cut grass filled the air.
We were young, green, and tough.

"How about you son, do you want to play
in the big leagues too?"  Jester asked.
Doug grinned.
"No sir, baseball isn't my thing.
When I get older, I'd like to ***** one of
your daughters."

Doug took off running.
He ran track for the team.
100-yard dash if I remember right.
I could hear Mr. Jester just
barely over the lawn mower.
Come here you rotten little
*******.

In every room
I've lived in,
all the dilapidated shacks
over the years that I've
stayed in, always had a
brown spider that crawled
the walls.
It had a little suitcase.

I thought to myself that it
planned on leaving, moving to
someplace better.
It never did.
It always just set up shop, and
spun a web in the corner and caught
flies, and occasionally a small moth.

On drunken sad moon nights,
I sang dirges to the trapped bugs.
They smiled and laughed, even though
they were dying.

On my last drunken escapade,
I was sitting in my girlfriend's
living room.
It was 3:28 am, I was *******
on a cheap bottle of *****, and
It was ******* the soul right
out of me.
I knew things needed to change.
She had just ****** me dry in
the bedroom, and I was losing
all my strength.
I had the wisdom of a snail,
inching along, waiting to be
crushed.

I wasn't drunk, just liquid smooth.
Contemplating and configuring the
degradation and the lack of
windmills to chase.
The mirror had become a horrible and
pitiful place. Out of the corner of
my eye, I saw a large shadow zip
across the wall.
A second later, our cat, Patches, leapt
into the air.
I heard a terrible

Squeak, tweet, squawk,

I ran to her and began prying
at her mouth.
It was a small night bird.
I took it from her and put it
outside.
It was still alive, and there was
no
blood on my hands.
I said,

Bad Patches.

It freaked me out.
I woke up my girlfriend and told
her what happened.
She said,
are you sure it wasn't a dream?
I went into the bathroom and looked
in the mirror.
I drained the last of the *****,
and walked to the hospital.
When it's time,
you just know.

The words and lines
aren't coming today.
I lie down for a nap.
I dreamt of metaphors
and similes.
I woke up.
The years swim away
like bass at spawning
time.

On our way into
Santa Anita one day,
an old man had tipped
over in his wheelchair.
There was a pool of blood
beneath his smooth head.
I was with my Dad.
He was around the same
age as the poor injured man.
I was 12.

Seeing that man, and watching
the blank stares of the apathetic
crowd gathering around the
man, and the blood, and the
fallen wheelchair, I knew that
nobody would win, and the
horses that ran were the luckiest
of us all.

As nightmares subside
at dawn, your eyes
reflect the fear and the
pain.
They spill a desire to try.

Please try.

You can walk in the
rain without an umbrella
and let the clover and
honeysuckle guide you
to safety.
Evict the chaos from
your thoughts, and
leave the incubus behind.

On the backs of
flies
we wait for the
next thing.
Something is
always coming.
A birth or death,
food or hunger
hatred
laughter
love...

Something is always
coming around the
corner.
The Mad Hatter with
mushroom tea.
A strange color of
blue that tastes like
almonds.
A ****** that sparkles
in the night.

Listless mornings
of languid
walks with the
wife in the cool
of the evening.

A knife in the back,
a shark attack,
or maybe, just
possibly, you write
a poem about
waiting for the
next thing.

Bowing to the ***** god,
I lived like a pleasure
seeking missile, propelled
toward all things ME.
Empty as a carcass.
Hungry as a desert.
I didn't see the
strawberry moon of
summer.
It was me and the
Ferryman, until the
river ran dry.
Eternal winter for
the soul.

And then

A revolution in my
being.
A total shift in
my values and
perception.
The Creator purchased
my dilapidated heart.
He moved in and lives
there still.

My home, on the outside
might look like
a shack to some, but inside
it's a mansion with the
most sublime bread you
ever tasted.
Fruit trees in every room.

We talk about the
past like it's a
movie we
watched together.
You liked the
cinematography.
I didn't care for the
cruelty of the
protagonist.

We disagree on the
theme, and every
scene holds different
aspects of
symbolism for us.
I'm not sure I want
there to be a sequel,
despite the good
acting.

You were worried about
the storm, so you
invited it in,
wanting to control the
damage through your
kindness and friendship.
But you can't.
The storm doesn't have
a conscience.
It will never be a cute
pet on your leash.

When my oldest brother, Todd,
came back for my mom's funeral,
he had this light about him.
His face was a poem.
Sure, he was the oldest, and he
had a healthy-looking tan from the
hot New Mexico sun, working
outside with turquoise, silver,
and bear claws to make
jewelry for the tourists, but there
was more than that.

He was an artist, and all artists have
a fractured ease about things, but he
lit up.  Something from the inside
projected out.
He comforted everyone else, we leaned
on him.  His eyes oozed serenity.

A few calendars later, when I traveled
back for his funeral, I saw the same
look on a few of his friends' faces.
His wife told me after the service
that Todd had gotten sober years before.

Empty and debauched,
that hollow space
inside of me,
the cavernous
void that I tried
to stuff with
*****, drugs,
****** galore
turned out to be
the exact shape of
the Creator.

I smelled the stale
breath of death coming
for me on the
nightmare wind.
Life tasted like rotten
meat.
Maggots ate away at
my soul, and all I
touched felt like
cracked cement and
broken glass.

Always lost
forever searching.

I'm glad I found my
way home to the
sublime symphony, life can be,
should be
will be, if I don't wander
to the barren places, and
pitch a tent.

I will not be
subdued.
Cages don't suit me.
I have to be free.
Fly
run
sing
dance in the
open fields, swim
in the river with
the fish and water snakes.
My soul can't be
taken without my permission.
The access is denied.
My heart isn't yours to
mock and ****.
I will rise like
the phoenix from
the ashes and sail on against
the azure sky, free and
untethered.
Resurrected
I'm back from the dead.

She had these little cups
of coffee for eyes, and I
should have stayed up
all night.
Love is a drunk *****.
A lie from Saturn.
Venus, slither back in the
ocean where you belong.
Loneliness is a knife cutting
my ***** off.
Knowledge arrived with an
alarm clock from hell,
always the wrong *******
time. Slammed doors, words
of hatred.
What happens to the man that
inherits the wind?

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.

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.

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.

We used to meet at this
enclosed bus stop.
Glassed in, like a
blurry-eyed goldfish.
Diesel morning sadness.
We were drunks, dead, and
still dreaming.
There was Chuck, Dog,
Lefty
Lucky
and Beth.

We shared our minuscule
amounts of liquor, and sang
old Motown favorites.

"Mama said there'd be days
like this."

These were the days of the
drunk and debauched.
Liars and lovers, partakers
in this waddling life.
Shattered days and fractured
nights.
We shadowboxed with the
sun, and pretended tomorrow
was a century away.

The mediocre march into oblivion
while watching Tik Tok videos
and never reading a
book or writing a
poem.
They don't know
the difference between
an orchid or an iris.

The mediocre march into
madness sleeping until
noon, while neglecting
Bukowski and Mozart.
They don't know how
to play an instrument.
No idea what a C
major chord is.
But they know all
the emojis.
The sad sheep masses
don't
know the difference
between a Van Gogh or
Monet painting, and a
digital reproduction on
a coffee cup.
Their phones look
like grotesque growths
attached to their ears.
Everyone should
contribute to the
cosmic dance,
Carpe Diem
*******!

We all hated music class in
6th grade.
We clowned around
constantly.
The only thing good about
it was Miss. Reed. She was a
nervous sort.  She wore her
hair in a **** bun, there were
always a few hairs that escaped
her beret.  She wore these big
horn-rimmed glasses.
Sat on her desk and waved her
hands around like she was
conducting an orchestra of
idiots.

She became animated and
moved from side to side, up
and down.
C major children!
I always tried to
look up those tweed
skirts she wore.
One time, I thought I saw her
bush.
I told my friends, and they called
me a liar.

Frank McManus said,
"Alright, wise guy, what did it
look like?"

I said,
Our cat, Muffin, just had kittens.
There's this chubby black fuzzy one,
we call her Grumpy.  That's what
it looked like."

"Oh, you're full of ****, a broad like that
would wear *******.  What if she had a
period and bled all over?  They'd fire
her for sure."

We used to sing that old song, Molly Malone.
Well, I had my best friend who sat at the
desk right in front of me, and no ****,
his name was Wally Malone.
One day, after school, he cornered me in the
bathroom.
"If you scream, sweet Wally Malone and
that **** about cockles and mussels in my
ear one more ******* time, I'm gonna sock
you right in the mouth."
I always felt bad for the woman in
the song, dying of fever, and then haunting
the town.

During the last class before summer, we were
being especially wild.
Miss Reed said,
"Am I addressing a 6th-grade class?"
I said, "No, we dress ourselves."
I knew I should have been a
comedian instead of a poet.
I sure miss that kitten, Grumpy.