There are miracles when I open my eyes.
The smile on the cat, the taste of strong coffee.
A Beethoven symphony while I taste dark chocolate.
I exist in the present, next week is nebulous.
The touch of my baby's cheek against mine
defeats the demons and destroys chaos.

Fear ***** at
my spine, like
a leech,
slimy and black.

The crowds
laugh and imitate
each other.
No creativity,
only brutality.
Little lemmings.
They get raises and
promotions,
accolades in bunches.

Killers of the
dodo and the redwood.

They smile over
tea and the
bones of dead men.

Perfect in
their machine like
minds; immune to death,
like the quest for power.

I'm in a cool group.
To stay on top
of my writing, and to
promote and market
my poetry, I often
publish online.
If Lord Byron could
hear that.

In this place that
I belong,
I have deadlines.
I procrastinate until
the very last day, and then
scribble some ******
lines and get angry with
myself for putting the
writing off.

I have a couple of
weeks before I need
to write a sonnet or villanelle.
I'm getting anxiety.
It's not producing the
desired effect of
hard work or discipline.
No
Not that.
It is getting me thinking.
That is sometimes productive,
and usually comical.

I'm thinking about
the 15 months I've
been sober.
For many years,
I was miserable.
Drinking and writing.
Writing and drinking.
Holding the bottle of
***** to my shivering
lips to get the last
spider of liquid.
My clothes smelled of
decay and cowardice, and
everything tasted like
rotten meat.

Now, I have a beautiful
maple desk that my three
cats like to sleep
on while I write
poems about
procrastination and sobriety.
Such fuzzy black miracles.
They twitch as they
dream of fish and catnip,
and just maybe they
dream about writing a
sonnet for me.
We are all
addicted to something.

Living on the Scandinavian streets have
humbled her.
No Christmas cards with
a 20 spot anymore.
No trust fund from
Mom and Dad.
All the money vanished like
the last spider of *****,
like a dropped bottle of beer.
She could go to a
shelter by herself,
but she chooses
life on the
streets in the
brutal winter to be
with her Swedish boyfriend.
Love is lunacy--sometimes frozen.
Two dead friends last year on
a mad moonlit night.
Human icicles on
the Iowa City streets.

One time while drunk,
her and I stole
the neighbor's canoe.
We had her little
black dog with us.
I dubbed him,
Senator Ted Kennedy;
probably because we
were all drunks,
(not the dog) I don't think...
We wrestled the canoe into
the Iowa River, and
immediately proceeded to
tip it over.
The Canoe sank like
a bad bet by Hunter S. Thompson.
We could've easily drowned, but we
laughed our ***** off,
choking and splashing,
except for Teddy, who swam
for Boston.

See all those people
they're real, they
think, they
aren't mannequins.
I know this may come
as a surprise, but there
are other people in the world
with problems.
And by the way, the fact that
you can't find your tweezers
isn't a catastrophe.
Oh I know you need them to
perfect your eyebrows.
Just in case you forgot,
We are having a pandemic!
Oh, you want me to leave because
I make you uncomfortable.
Never mind, it is freezing out
and it's late at night, and I've nowhere to go.
Just a small reminder, we have a
two-year-old daughter, and I
have been helping you take care
of your son for eight years.
Oh, it's your house, and
it's not your job to put me up.
I wouldn't live with you if you paid me.
I had a place, but I gave it up when
you called me, crying and begging
for my help with the kids, because
you couldn't multi-task.
Ok, now I get why you got
rid of the mirrors in your house.
Even though you're a narcissist,
it's too painful for you to
see your vacant reptilian eyes
starring back at you.

I explored the
depths of hell, and
found it wanting,
wandering the streets,
looking for a utopia.
Not all that shines is
the sun.
Pictures can be
doctored, and when the
layers are peeled away
the purple horizon isn't
royal.
It's a ghastly negative,
with black and white
images that lack
love and depth.

All the potions are placebos.
It's temporary and tiring.
When I grew up,
I stopped playing with
toys, they break and
disappoint, and worse yet,
they leave me empty and hungry.

The sky-pilot found me
and I am full,
belly and soul.
Besides still waters,
green is my bed.

Ice melts on the Lake.
Fish will move into shore soon.
Please bring back the dock.

Anxiously waiting.
I just bought some more tackle.
March, please be a lamb.

Walleyes taste the best.
Get the hot Cajun batter.
I feel a slight tug.

In one of
my many
lifetimes, when
I was a child,
my dad had a
sprawling stretch
of land in
Missouri.
He had 200
head of cattle.
We used to run
the cows we
bought at auction
through this
shoot with wooden
beams that closed
on their necks.
My stepmom took
this gun-like object
and put an orange
tag in their ear.

My brother and I used
to play with this black and
white steer.
We called him old #56
because of the number on
his tag.
We chased him, and then he
chased us.
I felt bad for
him, the tag in
his ear.
I talked to my
dad about it.
He said if the steer
ever got lost,
we could find him.
I felt good about that.
I didn't want to lose him.

One night
the following summer,
we were sitting down for
dinner.
I hadn't seen
old #56 for a while.
I asked Dad where
he was.
He didn't say anything.
We were having
t-bone steaks.

As I write this,
my black and white
kitten, Bukowski,
bites at the pen and
tries to wrestle my
wrist as it moves across
the paper.
I'm glad that he
isn't a steer.

On days that
I have a
difficult time
writing, I let
my mind wander
to another
place and scene.

Today
I imagine a
musty attic.
It smells like
mothballs and
old perfume.

I stumble upon
an old trunk.
And when I look
inside
I find hundreds
of my poems that
I wrote and
forgot about.
I thumb through
the brittle pages,
and read.

"Hey, not bad.
This one is pretty
good.
Hey, here's one with
multiple layers.
Writing as a
metaphor for
******."

This silly exercise of
mine just netted me
this poem.
Wanderlust of the
mind promotes
creativity.
Now I can nap,
after I ***
of course.

A long time
ago
when I was
a teenager,
I had a
wonderful,
tender-hearted
girlfriend.
She was patient.
I was wide
awake, and green
as a frog.

She said,
don't rub it so
hard, you will
hurt it.
Think of it as
a new toy you
discovered.
It's small, and
you need to be
careful.
It isn't a
pimple that
you are
trying to pop.

I can still smell
her hair, lilacs and
pond water.
And on
gentle summer
nights, I hope someone
is being kind to
her love button.

The cats gather
en masse every
time I sit
down to write.
One by one, they
jump up on the
big maple desk,
and walk across the
keyboard.

Mojo swats at
Shadow's tail.
Bukowski nips at
my fingers as they
peck at the keys.
It's going to be
a long night.
The cats don't
understand poetry
or marketing.
Shadow hisses, and
jumps down.
Bukowski gets
bored, and bites at
the cords.
He gets overly
excited, and slips off
the back of the desk.
The wild look in
his eyes flash
centuries of power
and sadness.

I think of my feral
days on the streets,
stealing *****, and
sleeping under
bridges in
December.
I wrote my words on
the walls of the
abandoned
houses.
And now,
such beautiful
providence.
I quit drinking and
I live in a town with
a clear lake.  I catch
fish and eat them.
I've published three
books and I write my
poetry on a
computer that my
three cats view as
a playground.

Sometimes,
it all seems like a
furry dream.

Beneath these
satin sheets,
my memory
flutters like
little birds on
indigo nights.

Folded wings
rest in my
mind's eye.
Fingers itch with
visions,
Delta of Venus,
orchids in bloom,
wet with the
sticky dew.

I grip my
virility
and begin
a slow
waltz...
It feels so
good.

It doesn't come with
pageantry and pomp.
Happiness comes with the
soft whirl of the
ceiling fan, while I
sit and watch the
snow fall through
the venetian blinds.

It's the end of
debauched
momentary celebrations of
scoring enough
change to get a pint of
*****, to avoid withdrawals.
Dead friends on a
street to nowhere.

Happiness comes softly in
the jingle, jangle bells on
the cat toy, as the
kittens play.
All around me, living things.
African violets and aloe vera plants.

I live for the Zen on
the banks of the pond
amidst the cattails and willows.
Bluegill and small bass
swim the shallows.

It's the end of chasing
the chaos of attaining
things that
rot and rust.
Happiness comes
quietly with a clear
conscience and some
good coffee, as I sit
on furniture that I own
and pray for my
fellow man.

It comes in the
bliss of a hot bath.
The spirit is cleansed in
love and gratitude.

They've been
monkeying
around with
my town, when
I wasn't looking.
The space and
landmarks have
been shifted.
Something is
cooking in the air.
It smells ultra
bright, with a
hint of juniper
berries.

Even, the kittens
are sitting up on
their haunches and
taking notice.

There is a
force at work that
doesn't want me
to write.
There's always
something vying for
my attention.
The phone rings,
the kittens want
played with,
I get *****.
All I have to
do is think about
writing, and the
next thought is
I should take
a nap.

To read about
writing
isn't enough.
To promote my
writing won't cut
it either.
To finish one more
poem, to communicate
something worthwhile
is what will help
me sleep tonight, and
keep the undertaker
lonely and afraid.

Some say,
laughter is the
best medicine.
While I have
found that to
be true, it's
become so
cliche.
An axiom I now
live by is that
mushrooms are
the best medicine.
Perception's door opens
wide, and my jaw aches
with laughter.
I can taste blue and
green, and hear
tulips sing lovely
ballads for the
squirrels that have
forgotten where they
buried their nuts.
I train my poems like
circus bears.
They rarely maul me.
And, just between
you and me,
The Birth of
Venus painting that
hangs above my
writing desk vibrates and
pulsates like the
Gulf of Mexico.
That red headed
temptress dances
seductively, long into
the night.
And now,
my kittens think
it's funny to
meow backwards.

There must be
a hell where
forgotten
words and lines
dwell.
Similes scamper,
lost like beetles.
Bat winged metaphors
fly to that dark
hell of forgotten
poems.
If those wandering
words escape, they are
gone forever.

When I swim in
the ink, and the
writing streak starts,
the prose comes to
me while I try to nap.
Now, I sleep with
pen and paper,
to put the words in
that white paper
prison where they
belong.

I'm not surprised anymore by
the extraordinary.
When life bombards
me with trivialities, and
ordinary events,
something always happens to
jolt me from my lethargy.

"Bukowski **** on
the training pads!"
My brother yells, from
the dining room.
I'm living with my
brother, and
we have two
black kittens, Mojo and
Bukowski.
They bring me
hours of smiles.
I've never seen
eyes so full of
trust and adoration.

Bukowski has an
aversion to the litterbox.
We have tried everything.
When I put him in,
he jumps out like it's
a muddy pond.

His brother Mojo adores
the litter box.
Not only does he do
his business, he also
plays and sleeps there on
occasion.
We've started with
the training pads and
newspapers.
It's working.
Amidst all the destruction,
hate, and chaos in the
world, I'm eaten up by
the magic of the ordinary.

I talk to them as
they doze in the
afternoon sun.
"Thank you boys,
you got me going again,
Mojo, you broke the
dry spell."
They blink, and
Bukowski licks his
brother's head.

Bukowski and Mojo zip through
the new apartment.
Chirping like birds.
I had no idea kittens could
be so easily thrilled.
They aren’t even
high on catnip.
Fluffy black
blessings.

Once in a while,
my poetry will bring
women.
They read my stuff.
They find me.
The talking is great;
very literary.
We speak of all
the little gods:
Hemingway
Pound
EE
Shakespeare
Dickinson
Buk
Ginsberg

Some­times, we ****.
That's always nice.
They soon find I'm
fallible and have
bad habits.
They prove human too.
They **** and drink my
*****, occasionally
burn dinner.
We try though, while
Joan of Arc burns at
the stake, Robin hangs
himself, and
Don Quixote fights
windmills.
I always love them.
And in the end,
we accept our
limitations and
humanity.

I sit here on
my 57th birthday
and listen to
Mozart in G minor.
I'm at peace, finally.
Gone are the
grass stains and
scabbed up knees.
I don't climb
trees anymore, but I
do see them.
The brilliant orange
and yellow leaves,
all cracked and happy.
I can smell pumpkin spice,
and hope smells like
a coffee crescendo.
I had fish for dinner.
It's never too late to
start eating healthy.
Life is a symphony.

My landlord gave
me two black kittens.
Little ***** of fluff.
I sent pictures to
my sister.
She said they have
eye infections, and not
to use hydrogen peroxide,
because it will blind them.
The thought never crossed
my mind.  I thanked her.
They are semi-feral,
but they are warming right
up to domestication.
I was like that too.
I enjoy my simple  life now.
Fishing and writing, I take
vitamins and clean cat ****
off my bed.
We are working on the
concept of the litter box.
I play classical music for them.
They like Vivaldi, but prefer
Mozart, D minor seems
their favorite key.
I don't know if they are
male or female, all I
see is a little pink dot, and
they aren't real fond of
me looking.
Bukowski for a male
and Emily for a female.
If they are both males
or both females, I don't
know what the hell I
will call them.
The bigger of the two is
sleeping next to me while
I write this.
I'll be a *******,
he's smiling, or she,
while sixteenth notes rip
through the burnt
umber autumn morning.

Don't call a women a ****,
they don't like it.
And don't tell a batter to bunt,
they want to smack it.
And whatever you do,
don't try and give your
cat a bath in the tub with
that Mr. Bubble ****,
he'll scratch you.

When your boss gives you the
newly revised employee handbook,
don't say, that ******, it went
on and on and on.
There was no plot, and I
couldn't figure out, who in the
hell the antagonist was.

And one more thing,
if you fall in love and you
think you found your
soul mate, and it doesn't work,
and you feel like your
heart is being ripped out
through your nose,
don't give up.
Because the right one is
out there, somewhere waiting,
and who knows, maybe they have
a cat that likes baths and
blow-dryers, and being dressed
up like an Oompa Loompa from
***** Wonka and the
Chocolate Factory,

it could happen...
Don't give up.

Mozart makes me
feel like
I'm soaring through
cotton candy clouds of
pure joy; if joy were
fluffy and white, and
soothed every ache in
my body and mind.
Wolfie is far better
than ***** and ******.

As I lie here getting
older and closer to
death, I feel so young and
alive.  I think I could
climb a tree.

My friend Dale
complains constantly.
He's a millionaire,
but says he's
always broke.
He quit drugs, and
rubs it in everyone's
face.
He rages when the
world is at war,
and complains that
it's too quiet during
peacetime.
He talks horribly to
his friends, and he
smokes cheap cigars.
He doesn't like
art, and he's never
read a book.

Dale has a small
pond in the back
of his house where swans
listen to Mozart and
mate, while squirrels and
racoons share pomegranates
and waltz all night
long under that big yellow
laughing moon.

You do it a
little at a time.
You start a holocaust at
5:30 am, over your
sausage and instant
coffee.

You do it with
your small hatred
and your snide
comments--your prideful
looks at the ***** man
with no shoes.

You do it in
one moment, by not
calling your dying
brother
over childhood
trivialities.
You do it by gassing
the goldfish, flushing love
down the toilet;
clogging the sewers with
your hatred and
malevolence.

You watch the green
grass die and the ants
drown, while you
smile over your
newspaper, and plot
your next hostile
takeover.
You did it when
you punched the
dog, and pinched
the child.
You do it when
you smile.

You're a mean
one Mr. Finch,
Mrs. Jones,
Mr. Smith.
But guess what?
You are dying alone.
Every day, every second,
and the moon and the
sun and the stars
celebrate your demise
and so do I.
You've never lost
any thing.
To loose, you must be
found.
You have to have a
bit of gamble in you.
You don't.
You're as useless
as an eel in
a quiche.

(Screaming)
You ******* witch, I want
my records back ahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!
Here's a broomstick to
ride to work on!!!

I hate these
******* gnats.
My apartment is
clean, not
sterile, but it's
where the heart is.
The floor is
swept, the dishes
are done, but these
******* gnats bother
me constantly.
I clap my
hands together,
occasionally killing
one or two, and then
I'm grateful that
God doesn't do that
to me.

I'm trying to
write, and these tiny
flying buzzards won't
leave me alone.
Then, a moth
bombards me,
fluttering around my
head and ears,
and I think,
what's than son of
a ***** going to
do to my Irish
whaling sweater?
It's 50% wool, 70 bucks.
I **** it.
Dusty *******.
I feel gratitude that
God doesn't do
that to me.

Don't these flying bugs
die when it gets cold?
I open a window.
Late October, maybe
there hasn't been a
frost yet.
I **** a gnat.
Perhaps I'd be
safer outside.
I need to do
some research.

A canary flew
in my
window and sat at
my desk with
me.
It said,
who are you?
I replied,
I'm a base
poet that's been
dropped on
his head by life
a few times.
Eyes like a
kicked dog, and a
beard that doesn't
grow straight.

It chirped like
a Bach concerto, and
said,
ah yes, we are
all just dead
birds at the
bottom of a cage, tiny
lice crawling through
our eyes.
No song.
No light.

I said,
you're a strange
little fellow.
And we sat there,
like that, waiting
for 6:00 am
so, I could make
a beer run.

I don't
understand why
my mind
drifts to thoughts
of you, in the
spring when I'm
alone in the woods.
The dew is on the
grass, and the small
flowers begin to
bud, the petals
slippery and wet,
glistening in the
morning
sun.
The birds sing
their symphonies of
praise, and the trees,
***** and strong, reach
to the waiting sky.
The rain shoots
down, and I
rest.

Maybe I'll find
a 100-dollar bill amidst
the burnt umber
maple leaves.
Maybe the ambulance will
come disguised as an
ice cream truck.
Perhaps I'll find a
warm forgotten can of
beer in the dryer.
Maybe, I'll blow
up the moon.

I'm losing it.
My pants won't
stay up, and I haven't
got a belt.
I'm being devoured by
the autumn winds and
the grackles.

Insomnia is crushing me.
Febrile and ferocious,
I stalk the university streets,
too sick to work.
Maybe this abscessed tooth
will **** me.

I used to pound out
12 hour days in the
hot July bean fields.
Farmer John always
smiling and shaking
his head.

Life is a
bologna
sandwich, and
I write these little
poems in yellow
mustard.
And I wait.

Just wait.

I have come through
the wildfires and
abject poverty.
The sardine days filled
with ghoulish women and
cowardly men.
Now, I have four
walls, and a table to
write at.
I've decorated my castle:
pictures and tapestries,
a raven figurine sitting
on a stump by the aloe vera.
I have a bookshelf from
the curb; all my
favorites are on it.
I turned my brother onto,
A Confederacy of Dunces
I hear him laugh from his
4 walls.
He escaped the
parasitical nights and the
neon souled undead.

It's a great life if
you don't succumb to
the crowd and the slugs that
just slide on through.
Now, it's the simple
things that bring me pleasure:
house plants, coffee brewing,
and the sound of my
neighbor watering his grass.
I think I will get a goldfish.
All perfect and orange.
And on the fringe, I hear
that feral cat, howling in
the night, without his
4 walls.

Some people serve
little gods.
They keep them in
a shoe box with
other odds and ends.
They take them out when
they need something.
Their gods don't expect
much of them.
I can tell by the
way they treat people.
Cold and cruel.
Wars break out,
famine hits,
families disintegrate.
And there goes Betty,
reaching up in the
cupboard for her
dust covered god.
She asks it to
make everything okay.
She lights candles for it.
Sometimes she has a
little ceremony.
But her tiny god can't fix
her heart, it's brutal and lost.
It does like religiosity though.

She is safe in
her madness.
A comfortable
tomb, convenient,
but suspect.
I wish it were
a gentle lunacy,
like Don Quixote,
almost admirable.
But it's rabid like
a berserker or
harpy, shrieking at
love and light.
destroying everything.

Some people are
drunk on power, pride,
and control.
When they
wake up and realize
they aren't God,
they change
direction or perish.

I will not trade
my serenity for
madness.
This sadness only
lasts a little while.
I don't want to be
in Wonderland anymore.
Everyone is crazy.
whichever way I
turn, left or right,
it's lunacy.

I deal in reality now.
I won't play croquet with
the queen, no matter
how much she smiles.
The game is fixed, and I
know it.
The deck is stacked.
The cards are laid,
and I see the
***** behind
her eyes.

Hey everyone.  It has been quite a journey here.  I have come to think of you as family.  I love you all.  I am happy to announce that my book, Seedy Town Blues, Collected Poems is available on Amazon, All formats available. Thank you all.  If the link doesn't work, just search the title on Amazon.  If you do purchase the book, would you mind leaving a review?  All of you are great.
https://www.amazon.com/stores/Thomas-W.-Case/author/B0CL2RKDGX?ref=aprdr&storeref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

I watched a young
boy beat his
chest and scream at
the dawn until
the liquid sky drove
him away.
He chased thunder
and
butterflies with the
same enthusiasm;
oozing a lust for
living in his chasm
of youth.
Ten years full of
questions and scabbed
up knees, freckled dreams
running across green fields
and sunlit meadows.
Golden little life,
resting beneath a
willow tree to sip the
sweetness
from the clover and
honeysuckle flowers.
Hours full of pocketknife
afternoons, whittling sticks
into arrows to
shoot at the moon.
And after the rain
oh sweet green youth,
run barefoot with the
wind
toward a sinless
sky.
And live, live
live, for tomorrow
will come with a sigh.

Light bends through the grass.

making dinner seen by him.

The worm says goodbye.

Time melts away like
a Dali painting,
and my mind flies north;
a Canadian goose against the
loose gray sky,
freer than any man's ever been.
Yesterday, I was a
melancholic little one, feeling all of
Seasons in the Sun, on the radio.
5 years old, in the
backseat of my mom's black Plymouth.

Mom's gone.
Dad is too.
I'm getting old, but I will
never stop searching for that
gold in the heart.
I'm finally the simple prairie man that I
always longed to be.
I smell the autumnal night, and it's
nothing but cattails and bass from here until
that big orange fire paints the
west end of the lake.

Your raven hair drapes
my bronzed back.
I attack your neck and
*******, beamed by the
moonlight, I carry you to
Nirvana on a chariot made
of steel.

I'm tired of that
Humpty Dumpty
kind of love,
proud and walled
up,
falling
shattered into a
thousand tattered
pieces.

Love drives between
the lines.
It doesn't rush
headlong into
oncoming traffic,
taking the lives of
others.

It's never
cruel or brutal.

It comforts the sick.
It doesn't think with
its ****.
It doesn't leave when
times get tough.
it buckles down through
this rough and tumble
game we call life.

I sleep with my glasses,
so, I can see in my dreams
the moment you left me,
it's all part of the scene.
So, the jockeys, they need me.
I know they will bleed me.
And it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.

The buzzards and seagulls,
they know what you've done.
You said, come on boy,
let's go have some fun.
But that look in your eyes
was full of goodbyes
and now, I'm all but done.
I'm full of regrets
but, it's just one more bet.
And it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.

The clowns and the hookers
got nothing for me.
They took all my money,
oh boy can't you see?
There's just one more bet,
and I'm full of regrets.
and it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.

Bukowski and Hopper
look down on me smiling.
They've been out to sea.
They've been past the islands.
I'm tired of running
and I'm tired of standing still.
Another pill won't do it
and it's time for me to go.
And it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.

You took all my money
on a day that was sunny
and you know them old clowns,
they really aren't funny.
So, I head to the track
to win it all back,
and it's 2 dollars on the
6 horse to show.

The civilization of
poets has thinned out.
There's a drought of
metaphors and symbolism.
We are all prisoners in
a musty attic.
Where is Emily when
you need her?
I'm afraid they've gone
the way of the graveyard.
Too much ***** and
too many broken hearts.

Where have all the
painters gone?
Sunk deep in
cobalt blue.
Artists resurrect!
Come out and play.
These are days full
of sumptuous sunrises,
and nights laden with neon.
I long for those
Jagged edges and brush strokes
that bleed pain and love.

Art changes our world.
It makes the brutality
bearable.
The smell of paint and old
books, transport us to
a gentle place laced with
ambrosia that we all
should drink.

I'm not a big fan of flies,
but I don't hate them.
I don't really like pies,
but I can make them.

I love my life, and can
fake it when I don't.
I could go on with
this poem, but it's
the end, so I won't.

I wonder where my little pagan princess is?
No doubt, she's out casting spells,
or getting her nails, hair, and lips painted black.
I gave her a broomstick for her birthday and said it was cheaper on gas than her Saab.
She failed to see the humor in it.
What I wouldn't give to find a woman that dug watching sunsets, The Three stooges, and listening to Miles Davis; that looked alive, instead of like Morticia from the Adams Family,  or some demented funeral
director on crack.

She's got a meeting with the
coven tonight.
I suggested that we get some
Chardonnay, put on some Van Morrison, and make love by
the fireplace.
She just cackled and flew off,
in her Saab, not on the broomstick.

Destiny and eternity are
chiseled in seconds.
Flecks of snow become
mountains.
Drops of rain make
oceans.
Thoughts tumble into
decisions, and actions,
overtime, leave a
legacy.

As a child, the 80 acres seemed like the whole world, with its ponds and streams and sunlit meadows.
It looked like Eden to my young eyes.
I chased the lambs and dragonflies, caught tortoises and toads.
The banks of the streams looked like cliffs to me, as I watched the suspended shadows of the bluegill in the water below.

With July's on broil, I found shade beneath a black locust tree, and tried to figure out, how I could use the thorns as fish hooks, to catch dinner for the night.
Evening set the sky on fire and the clouds were all a blaze.
Passion found me early, so much land, and nothing but time.

Then dusk turned gently into night and the summer Moon looked sad, like a giant porch light left on, for a lover that's never coming home.
As I lay in bed the cicadas buzz tucked me in, and from the pond came to bullfrog sad song, and I knew he was lonely like me.

I am dumb
with wonder, that I'm
not torn asunder, that my brain and body don't burst, under the
torment of the demon that lives in me.
He longs to be free, struggling clawing, scratching to be released, shrieking at me to write the words that reside inside.
I tried hard to drown him with ***** and Guinness Stout, but he learned to swim.

So once again, we toast the night alone by candlelight, as I read Sylvia Plath while he takes a bath in dark Irish beer. He knows that writing's fantastic, *******, electric, and we *** together as he whispers me sweet prose while doing the back float in a sea of Absolut.
I'm destitute, but he doesn't care, just as long as I share his seed that spills from my quill.
And so, I hear is shrill voice in the middle of the night, screaming, screeching, write *******,
write.

Dad's been dead a while now, but he used to always say, 'boys, don't let the ******* get you down.'
Or, 'they can **** us, but they can't eat us.'
Nine times out of ten,
he would utter these great pearls of wisdom when we received a large bill in the mail.
Minutes later, we would peel away down the Pacific Coast Highway to the track, Santa Anita or Hollywood Park.

It was an exciting experience, being around
that environment at such a young age.
After all, it's the sport of kings.  Dad took everything in stride; he didn't worry much.
Unfortunately, I didn't inherit that from him.
He was an English and drama teacher, and what he did pass on to me
was a love for literature.
He made it come alive, and for that, I'm eternally grateful.
So Dad, wherever you are, I just wanted you to know, I didn't let the ******* get me down.

The under shell of
the tortoise looked
like a sunset.
Blasts of color:
orange, maroon, burnt sienna.
I caught them in
the garden at
sunrise, eating a
tomato or chewing into
a head of lettuce.
They always looked so
serious.

I was just a
sunburnt boy, with
cutoff jeans and a
straw hat.
I caught toads too.
But when they peed on me,
I let them go.
I loved that land.
Ponds and streams,
fishing and climbing trees.
oh,
sweet, green
youth.