Words will be my
food today.
I don't want
to get dressed,
eat breakfast
or go to church.
I'll stay in bed and write,
until the demons stop whispering,
and humanity quits
******* on me.

Last night,
on my way to the
bookstore to get some
Bukowski, I found a
mourning dove,
not a baby
but, too young to fly.
It was huddled against
a concrete wall.
I picked it up and put it through a fence hole in some tall grass,
so that the dock cat, Prozac,
wouldn't **** it.
She caught a lot of birds,
and ate them.
When I went outside
the other morning at five,
She was stalking sparrows and starlings with a murderous
look in her eyes,
and I thought to myself,
Someone should have put me
In the tall grass, a long time ago.

If you can no longer bear life's clenched fist, it's random smashing of all your hope, dreams, desires, and passion,
be drunk.

Be drunk on wine, music, poetry by the pages, or, on the agelessness of the silky moss covered pond or the fog thick meadows.

If you would not feel time's ticking brutality, be drunk.
If all memory does is remind you of the losses, the deaths, the divorces, the regrets, the remorse over your high ideals and standards, and your much lower behavior, choices, and antics; when life seems anti-climactic, be drunk.

As loneliness becomes like a rotten tooth, hot flashing pain, and the stain on your heart and hands won't come out, be drunk.

Whether it be *****, poetry, nature or music, be full, filled, consumed.

Until the glare of this cruel world becomes a soft gentle blur, be drunk and entombed.

Life wears me out with its
twists and turns, and
hairpin curves.
I keep waiting for a
long, peaceful stretch
of highway, bathed in
the rising sun.
A golden wheatfield to
to the left, a moss covered
pond with dragonflies to
the right.
The road turns to gravel,
and climbs rapidly uphill.
There are signs along the
way that promise the world.
The road gradually turns
to dirt, and ultimately
disappears.

Sometimes, I think I feel too much, like I crossed into a world of shadows; like there's been some kind of mistake.
Life seems to sharp, to vivid,
too right there in my face.
I feel like a stranger.  It's as if I were on a bus, and out of the tinted windows, things looked vaguely familiar. I pull the string and get off.
It's the wrong stop, it's the wrong world. The bus has disappeared;
there's no way home.  I used to stand on a bridge that a river flowed under. And off in the distance, high atop the ash trees, the eagles were nesting. They were so beautiful and serene.
I can't watch them anymore. It breaks my **** heart to see all the concrete and construction inch closer and closer to the little slice of heaven they found in a piece of nature
that seemed vaguely
familiar.

I want to make love to you one
more time, lying lavishly on those old blue satin sheets.
Silky smooth, like cheeks of angels; dangling our toes off
the end of the bed in sweat
drenched ecstasy.
Just once more, I want to
amble down the grocery store aisles, trying to decide what to make for dinner.
You, looking at the hamburger helper boxes, me, trying to decide between Thai and Italian, the kids, screaming, "Hot dogs, hot dogs."
I can't change time, but baby,
If I could, when the other woman came to me with her
snake dance, I would laugh and turn my back and run home to you.

Alone in the woods on a late spring day.
Pensive, I passed time.
You were stopping wet that
April evening when the rains came.
Even after 10 years,
******* you was like unwrapping a present on
Christmas morn.  I was always
surprised, and never disappointed.  
I feel
anointed to find someone as
beautiful as you.
The touch of you and the taste
of you, is forever my heart's
sunrise and my dreams come true.  
Enraptured by your two
lips, I could sip on your nectar
forever, or until I'm alone in
the woods on
a late spring day.

It was a four horse race at
Santa Anita.
I was with my old man and
little brother.
I put everything I had on
the number 3 horse to show.
His name was Dusty's Diaper.
Shoemaker was aboard;
the shoe for God's sake.
It was a sure thing.
All he had to do, was not
come in fourth place.

I learned that day,
in a horse race,
anything can happen.
I was 12 years old.
And like horse racing,
In life, anything can
happen.

Amidst the California evening,
On our way to the car,
I thought my Dad
Would live forever.

You can hear them scream at night,
the men, locked in,
over at the hate factory.

It's a kind of purgatory.
A winter time
for the mind.

No light gets in.
No love either.
But you can see it all below
through the bars
on the window.

There's a passion that burns
within me that's never
more alive, than when I'm
In the garden.
And in the garden of
love, my favorite
flowers are the tulips.

They're especially inviting
after a bottle of Chianti
on a hot July night, with
John Coltrane seductively
blowing from the CD player.

Equally captivating, is the little
bud that lies North of the
tulips.  And with the right
amount of attention, the little
bud, the pea in the pod, creates
a nectar of the gods that tastes
sweet, like honey to my soul,
like maple syrup to my spirit,
a heavenly sap that flows like
the beer on tap at an
all you can drink club.
Like Dylan Thomas at a
pub in Wales, my heart sails drunk on the tulip's fine wine.
And then like magic it occurs,
when ovulation yearns for
procreation, and on those nights,
On those nights...
I could spend forever in
the tulips.

Sometimes we think
that the party
never ends;
that tomorrow
won't come;
but sunrise always
cracks our illusion,
until one day
dawn's sweet light
shines
no more.

When Summer's heat
gives way to
autumns bliss,
I will kiss this
world goodbye
and walk to
the woods
to save
the last sliver
of my humanity,
where the creek
meets the river of
my destiny.
Far away from
the ****** city of
sick Streets
and broken
dreams.

If in death
there were
dreams of divine
joy, and sublime
happiness,
it wouldn't be
so bad.

Like the dreams
I had as a
little boy.
The ones, that upon
waking, I felt like
I'd been punched in
the stomach.
Heart sick, lonely as
an old hound,
howling in the
moonlight.

The dreams that felt
so real, I could taste
the sweetness of
my favorite candy on
my tongue.
I could feel the
handlebars of my
shiny new bike.
Feel the wind on
my face, as I
raced against time.

The dreams where I
could smell the
honeysuckle in that
beautiful girl's hair.
The one that loved
me, as we walked the
dew soaked Meadows,
and talked about
our lives together,
bobwhite's singing our
favorite songs.

No, death would not
be bad at all,
if we could dream.

She sits in
the truck, quietly
waiting for her
husband.
Spring's broken
promise.
25 degrees.
She thinks about the
robins, and their sweet
song.
She can almost see
the daffodils,
butter yellow.
She thinks of pancakes,
breakfast with the
family,
and all those caged
animals at the zoo,
with their poor,
tired, glazed eyes.

When the urge
to react to the
tactless clowns,
and
down looks like
up,
and life's teeth
are sharper than
a steak knife,
breathe,
and take a
sacred pause

Just like Orpheus,
I descended.
Though,
my digression was
for different
reasons.
Yeah, I tried to
rescue you from
your hell.
Bring you out of
the degradation,
the debauchery.

It smelled like
***** and ****.
The swine squealed.
The harpies shrieked.
And,
I looked
too long.
I became you.

Thank God I escaped.
Fate dragged me
out by the scruff
of my neck.
I will never
visit your
underworld
again.
You've made it
your home.

I've been to the crushing
place.
It smells of death, and
spider mums.
Daisy chains dropped,
when the music died.
The lake is murky now.
Clowns roam the street,
looking for carnivals
and meat.
Silly boys still believe
in love and dreams, and
girls that like opera and
giving head.
This world is strange, and
Picasso walks the lonely
avenues, feeding
seagulls' peanuts and paint.
No one blames him.
It's his blue period.
All the while,
an old bent man plays
the guitar.
He smells like camels,
and hope.

It's the strangest
thing.
All my senses are
alive, ablaze with
ultra keenness.
My brain is
sweetly burned,
and my eyes are
on fire.

I can taste the
cotton candy clouds,
snd the cab that
I'm riding in smells
of coconut and
honeysuckle.

Those ravens have
mustaches like Poe,
and those raccoons
look just like
Bukowski.
I hear an Opera by
Wagner in the wind,
and my footsteps sound
like the very
pulse of life

With furrowed brow
and a soul full of
sorrow,
I trudge the
lonely road of
perdition.
Providence guides me
as I stumble and fall.
Not even *** or
chocolate
can save me now.

She is my unopened
present
my box of regrets,
the locked door;
the letter without
a stamp.

I'm a
flower without
soil
A fish on the
beach.
I'm a lame dog,
and the gray in
a beard.
I'm an
albatross on a
gray sky,
a ship lost
at sea.
I'm the unanswered
words...
Marry
me.

I'm lonely as a
dancing ghost in
empty Halls,
waltzing through
memories of a
Banquet set for
many, yet no one arrived.

I long for
her on winter nights
when Christmas is a lie.

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

Evening sky reflects
on the glass lake.
The soldier of a
tree carries on
through the lonesome
night.
If we could only
see the dreams of
the fish,
far from the
frying pan.

Sometimes,
I catch
myself Swaying,
like there is
an eternal metronome
that my spirit
hears.
Or,
A song that my
soul must keep
time with.
It beats to the art
that surrounds me.

Such a delicate balance,
between the cactus and
the sun.
Between the dog and
the bone.

When they autopsied the
Tin Man, there were
irises and orchids and
Neruda poems where
his heart should have
been.

Love is an overused
word,
but an underused
gift.

She threw me a
rock in a
sea of madness.
A twisted lifeline,
when I longed
for love.
Now it's just
empty space,
a knife wound to
the face,
and a new
house
that I can see
the library from.

Another visit to
Med Psych;
the withdrawals are
horrendous.
I’m emaciated and malnourished.
With the exception of
one meal every few
days, I’ve dined on ***** and
wine for my sustenance.

I check out a lap top from
the patient library, and
try to get the poems organized on
my flash drive.
Concentration is elusive.

The psych doctor decides
to have me committed.
She’s concerned about my
worsening health and depression.
I guess I can’t  
blame her, but what
bird likes a cage?

I try to talk her
out of it,
but she’s resolute.

The next day, just
as the deputy is
serving me the
committal papers, I have
a seizure—a bad one.
My lips turn blue.
I **** myself.
The doctors pump me full
of Ativan.  Everything is a  
blur for the next
week.
Slowly, softly,
my mind comes back.

I get a room-mate;
turns out he’s an
artist, a fantastic
abstract painter,
his name’s Chris.
Chris gets the activity
director to bring
him some paints and
other art supplies.

He goes to work;
stabbing the paper
with his brush—
makes it bleed with
color.  He’s a young  
drunk;
a madman and a  
genius.
I have my notebook and
my sword.
I pound out the word, the line,
my highway through this
silly society.

Chris and I talked
long into the autumn
night, locked in a  
cerebral prison.

The room we were in
was more like a Greenwich Village
beat pad than it was a  
hospital room.

I hold my
twisted angel while  
she sleeps,
her *** snug against
my groin.
I envisage her
sanguine
grin while she dreams of
domesticating me.
I can’t believe
that I never
noticed how
cute her mouth is.
It’s amazing—I’m spellbound.
I want to nibble on
those lips.
The way she
uses her tongue to
enunciate certain
words is sensual and
seductive.
I’m apathetic about
the topic she is reading,  
but while I watch her
mouth move, my ears  
hear Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Homeless and roaming the
streets like an orphan.
It was the dead of winter, and
I was still alive—barely.
My ex-girlfriend let  
me crash on her couch for
a few days.
She didn’t smoke.
I did,
so whenever I wanted  
a cigarette, I went out in
front of her
apartment and lit up.
One night, bent on nicotine,
I entered the January thaw.
As I had my  
smoke fix,
a man with a  
huge Rottweiler slowly
walked by.
The dog caught sight of
me, and gave me a low growl.
The guy talked to
his pet like he was
his best friend.
“Leave him alone, that’s his home;
let him smoke.”
The dog knew better, and
glared at me.
He barked loud and vicious.
“Leave that poor man alone.
Let him enjoy his cigarette,
that’s his home,”  the man said.
A small dog began  
yapping in the distance.
The man said,
“Oh great, you’ve upset that little dog.
Come on, let’s go.”
The Rott gave me an evil look, and
sauntered off.
He recognized his own  
kind.
He also knew that there
was something different about me.
He could smell it,
almost taste it.
He knew I was a mongrel,
and a stray.
He knew I didn’t
belong.

I sit in the dayroom of
cell block one in the county jail at
4:30 am.  It’s quiet, almost serene.
All the other inmates are asleep.
I wait for breakfast: two hard boiled eggs,
a doughnut, juice and milk.  
Once a week we can order books.
They will deliver them today.
I’ll get Bukowski, Steinbeck, and Cervantes.
The remaining six days will
fly by.
When I’m released, I’ll go under
the bridge—steal wine and
stay drunk.
I’ll eat every three or four days.
It’s January with record setting
frigid temperatures.
Survival will be a challenge.
There will be the ex-girlfriend to
contend with.
I’ll try to get what little
clothes that I left at her place,
that is, if she didn’t throw them away;
she’s somewhat of a **** like that.
My two best friends that stayed under
the bridge with me, died a day
apart two months ago,
so, nothing but
ghosts and memories there now.
I’m going to miss jail.

When I was  
younger,
I had to learn
sit and wait to  
write.  
I  would get
impatient and force it.
If you read it,
you could tell.
Now I’m quite a bit older, and
I quit trying.
Fodder seems to be  
everywhere.
I can write about
the most mundane
things.
Today I’m at the  
library waiting for my
girlfriend to
finish up at the dentist.
She’s getting her  
teeth cleaned.
All my drinking ruined  
my teeth.
When I got them  
pulled a year ago,
there wasn’t a  
good tooth in my head.
I have dentures now, so
I don’t have to  
worry about how much I drink.
I know this isn’t a
very good poem, but
hey,
there she is
all shiny and bright…  
and sober.

It was a
****** mary morning,
with a Van Gogh sky.
I woke up early, and
found a bar that did the  
same.
My kind of place
dark
and empty.
I began ordering ****** marys,
one after another.

At noon I paid
my bill and
caught the bus downtown.
I had to be at the  
courthouse at one for a
probation violation hearing.
I met my lawyer in the  
hall.
He said,
“What the hell are you doing?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“You’re drunk,” he shouted.
“I’m fine,”  I said.
I followed him into the
courtroom.
We sat down across the
table from the
prosecutor.
As soon as we sat
down,
he said,
“Come with me.”
I got up and followed
him into the
judges chambers.
He handed me a small
machine with a
tube attached,
and said,
“Blow in this.”
I did.

He said, "This must be your  
lucky day.
It’s broken.
Do you want a
week in jail or
a month more
probation?”

I’ll take the longer
probation, I said
I had nothing but
time, and a small
amount of cash.
I walked out of
the court house.
Everything
looked ******.

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.

You used to say it was ****.
You’d get this gleam in your
eyes as you kissed  
me ******* the lips and  
rubbed the back of
my head; but not  
anymore.
We had our laughter and
drunken songs,
but as always,
the end seeps in.
The poet in me hopes
one ******* thing will
last forever.
It started with
complaints, then
resentments and almost
hatred.  It’s sad.
There was a time when
the love was gooey—like  
chocolate in the sun.
We had an amazing
****** chemistry.
we were like
dogs in heat.
We ****** everywhere:
swimming pools,
the grass,
the beach,
the hospital,
our tent, other people’s tents.
Something was
always missing though, and
*** couldn’t fix it..
The end felt like swans dying,
like butterflies burning.
I always imagined us more
like Bonnie and Clyde than
Romeo and Juliet.
It doesn’t really matter, same ill fate.
****, who were we kidding?
Lovers inevitably get
their turn in hell.

She loves the
darkness.
It’s like a scar on
her soul.
She constantly complains about
my drinking,
yet daily, she fades
to black.
Sleep, oh what an
escape, but she
rapes the sunrise with
worry and
dreams deferred.
I write by candlelight because
she’s in a  
foul mood.
It’s like a tomb.

Our hypothermic love makes me
feel like a frozen lizard.
Road tripping to Cedar Rapids—
it’s a ******’ blizzard.  
I need some spirits quick to
warm me, then I’ll give her
my hypodermic rod;
one hundred cc’s of thick
hot nectar of the gods, then
this ******* nightmare of
frostbite will end.
And the light and the heat of
my **** inside her will be
our fervor and our grandeur.

Fear is like
the shadow of a bat,
larger than life.
I taste the
rabid nightmares;
they poison my soul.
Anger masks the fear.
I hear the harpies scream
in my febrile brain
and my faith is
small as a
grain of sand
growing slowly
over time.

My window of
tolerance is
more like a peep hole.
My comfort zone has gone
to hell.
They say, fight or flight;
I tend to freeze.
I miss the easy
days of youth,
when everything was
green and serene.
The cicadas and bobwhites
sang me to sleep.
The fields and streams
called to me.
I dreamed of
fish and candy
and the perfect girl.
I smelled love and
tasted simplicity.
I pray someday,
my window grows

As the ***** and
chemicals leave
my body
I realize that
anger wears many
masks.
It has lots of
colors and shapes:
sarcasm,
jealousy,
envy,
intolerance and contempt.
It's like being at
a masquerade.
I try to figure out
who or what is behind the mask.
It's only when I take them
off that I see
the truth.

My autocrat of a
cat
sat on the pedestal
and watched me type.
His eyes, slits, like
slivers of emeralds.

He took a paw,
licked it, and
washed his despot face.
He owned me.
I did whatever he
wanted.
He sauntered off,
then turned and
watched , as I
took liberty with
truth, for the
sake of
imagination and creation.

I dreamed last
night that he could
talk.
He just said two words.
"Beautiful lies."

There is a road to
sorrow.
The pain is palpable;
it involves
drugs, *****, and
bad women.
It ends with
life under a bridge.
There are lots of
hospitalizations.
It's hell on earth.
Seizures and sickness.
Love was my
haven, but I lost it.
I left ME behind.

It's been five years, but
I still miss her.
Home was in
her arms.
That brown hair and
those blue eyes still
dance through my
dreams.
Everyday was
Valentines Day when
we were together.
She's always in my
heart, but the
sky calls;
time doesn't

There is a gravity to
sadness; it pulls me
downward into a
deep dark well.
I can't climb out.
It's my own private hell.
I pray for levitation.
I jump, only to fall.
I feel forgotten.

I put one foot in
front of the other,
and I will rise.
I move on.
Hope returns like
a long lost friend,
and I find my sanctuary.

I am declaring my
independence from the
tyranny of ***** induced
debauchery.
I no longer need listen
to my addictive voice.
It only seeks my destruction.
No more am I in *******;
The chains lay at my feet

Psilocybin silly when the
cops arrive.
Sitting on the couch naked,
laughter aching jaws.
They ask where my wallet is?
I ask, where my pants are?
Even they laugh.
I can't say mushrooms are
all bad.
They are the catalyst that
brought me back to the
hospital to deal with the
real killer...
*****.

Hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.
******* surround me and send me into a rage.
Lonesome soul sinking in the mire.
Too tired to fight, I might need a drink.