***** and ***** are
tragedies of Greek
proportion.
Take a man with
potential and then
give him a steady
dose of either (or both)
withdraw it,
and watch him
degenerate.

It’s not the *** act
or
the alcohol its self,
it’s the effect they
produce on
one’s psyche.
We will always
equate that which we
feel emotionally
with absolute
truth.

If one has given
himself completely
(with abandon)
to either pursuit,
when removed,
there will be
a vacuum
a gaping
hole that without an
act from the
gods,
will never be
filled

I can't count how many times
I've been to the hospital to D-Tox.
she was there by my side.
I turned her on to the cheesecake
and yogurt berry parfait.
It was a plain yogurt with
fresh black berries, raspberries, strawberries,
and blue berries.
It was amazing--it still is.
We'd stir up the parfait and pour
it on the cheesecake.
It was divine.

I sit here and eat it alone tonight.
The berries explode when I put
them in my mouth and chew on them.
It's like food for the Greek gods.
An ambrosia for the brokenhearted.

I think of her as the little blueberries
roll around on my tongue.
It's all so creamy and succulent.
But, I still sit lonely and eat our poetic
yogurt berry magic and cheesecake.
And each berry stores a memory in
every luscious bite.
I feel desolate that
she isn't here,
with that juicy purple
liquid running down
her chin.

Your ashes don't speak to me Dad;
they float silent in the ocean.
I need you.
I have questions about
Don Quixote and Steinbeck.
You implanted in me a
love for literature,
and then left me before
the story was supposed to end.

What is the theme?
This plot *****!
I inherited your anger.
I think of you when
I punch the wall and
scream at my wife-
spider web windshields.

I cry through Man of La Mancha,
and laugh at the memory of the
stage you built us in the basement.
Who does that?
Props and scripts were our toys.
I acted and lied my way through my
first two marriages- always on.

You were the great director;
all your trophies are on the mantle.
You thought the pizza place turned
the volume down on the T.V when
your speaking parts came on.

I think you passed me your insanity.
I've been to the nuthouse many times.
I'm a poet Dad, two books published.
I still remember you reading
Kipling and Cummings to me.

In third grade, I read from
Of Mice and Men to my class.
The teacher scolded me for
saying, "Jesus Christ' and "*******."
What a peasant!
She missed the bigger picture;
life doesn't go as planned.

Which season shall be my victor
in this sick and silly world?
Will the icy kiss of winter
freeze my early fate?
Or maybe the hateful summer
with its raging humid air
will bake my broken spirit
amidst the August fair.
Will death come in the green of spring
against a bouquet night?
When robins return, and poets yearn
for lovers not in sight.
I hope in fall the inevitable comes
to a soulful Irish tune
while watching a glorious sunset
fade gently away too soon.

The way she faked
love on those gentle
autumn nights
in the country
was one of those little
miracles that made the
trees cry, and the
flowers weep.

Sleep brought dreams
of an actor on an
empty stage...
A big crowd that wanted
entertainment.
They followed the actor
everywhere.
He felt like he always
had to be on.
He didn't like that,
so he moved to
Idaho, where he fished
for trout, and real
love.

I'm going to write this.
I say that to myself, and
to you, the reader.
Every time I sit down to
work on poetry lately,
I'm overcome by lethargy.
I look at the whiteness
and go blank.
I thumb through notes,
nothing.

The thought of
lying down for
a nap rides by on
a tri-cycle in
my mind.
I hated naps as a
child, they interfered
with my plans to
conquer the world.
The coolness of the
sheets subdued me.

Instead of admitting
complete defeat,
I say to myself,
Maybe, I will wake
up refreshed and
inspired.
Perhaps, the muse will
visit in my slumber.

I retire to the bed,
Mojo, one of my cats,
Join me at the
foot.
She is soon
dreaming of catching
the elusive moth that
has been bothering
her for days.
And I will dream of
catching words like
butterflies with a big net.

You will meet people in
life that like a
fixed game or a
rigged deck.
The dice will feel
heavy, or the
take may be
light.
A jockey might hold
the whip in the
stretch,
or the champ will
go down from
a glancing blow.

Don’t be surprised when

you see it, you’re not
imagining things.
Some people need
it this way,
they’ve been on a loosing
streak for so long, they’ve
even lost
track.

The best you can hope
for is ten seconds
of one day in an entire
lifetime when it’s a level
playing field.
And if you get that
chance,
be ready, it’s
your turn.
Swing for the fence,
win by a nose,
take their *******
head off.

I love the country life,
in between the feral cats
and hawks.
Morning coffee March
I sip it with Irish crème and  smile.
Last night I fell
asleep inside her.
Safe and sound
and domesticated in her
tight wet walls.
We came together in
determined silence.
Family in the next
room.

I love the country life;
the ponds and streams and
sun soaked meadows.
The wild asparagus and
gooseberries.
In her arms my spirit rests.
My tired wings
find a nest better
than the barn swallows,
stronger than the eagles.
I'm a brook trout
swimming through
her veins.

I love the country life.
Coonhounds and cornflowers,
coyotes yipping and
bobcats tiptoeing up on
shocked field mice.
Last night, after we died
a little in each other's arms,
I gently rubbed her
cheek and kissed her
eyelids, nose, and lips.
I breathed in deep the
smell of lavender, ***, and
home, the safest
fragrance I know.

She left me like
Brutus left Caesar
like a shark attack.
My back was bent and
bleeding, and I was well
versed in delirium.

She had the electricity
shut off the day after
she abandoned me, and I drank
myself into a new oblivion.
There were kittens in
the wall--shadows tall and hot,
and I was well versed
in delirium.

I stole Four Locos' from
the convenience store, but
not enough to keep
the goblins at bay.
They chased me through
my nightmare--molested
me at dawn.
The elixir exorcised the monsters.
But I often misplaced it,
in the dryer or fireplace.
Meat began to rot in
the freezer, and I was
well versed in delirium.

My moon flowered brain thought
the cat tree was
a person.
I paced the floor and
talked to it; asked questions,
sought solace.
Degradation of the
mind reached critical mass.
And I landed in the
psych ward again.
The bats brought seizures,
and cheesecake, and yogurt
berry parfaits that were
to die for.
I was well versed in
delirium

Another lunatic trip to
the hospital.
Nine days, this
go around.
For the first two
days, I just pulled
the covers over my
head and pretended I
was back in the womb.
It was warm and safe.
As much as I
wanted to stay,
I knew it was time to
be reborn into this
strange world of
sick streets, and
broken dreams.

**** to
some
is
erotica to
others.

A feast to
me
maybe
a snack
to you.

We see things
differently
through filtered
eyes,
with varying
experiences.

Open
minds
think beyond
good and
evil.

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.

I found this
old hat at
the Salvation Army.
I liked it, it fit well;
kind of Sinatraesque.
I've received lots
of compliments.

But it doesn't stop the
cats from screeching in
the night.
It can't quench my
thirst.
It will never bring
my Mom and Dad back.
It's just a hat.

It can't fix my
relationship- it won't
break the horse or
heal
Lautrec's legs.
It won't give Vincent
his cobalt blue dreams or
give back Poe's
Annabelle Lee.
But
it's my hat and
I like it.

It's a lost planet;
all jacked up on
caffeine and pride.
The slime from the snail
tastes like jasmine
and tangerines.
When I think about
death, I picture all
the billions of
people who have already
died.

Death is
just as known
as life.
Death is not a mystery
to the dead.
It's as common as
paper clips, and
grasshoppers.
My Mom and Dad
know.
Bukowski and James
Dean know.
All three stooges
and Superman
dine for eternity
with the worms and
the rot.

This mindset steals the
fear from the ferryman,
and the river Styx becomes
a placid stream.

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.

How?
How do people do it?
How do people smile, drive cars,
buy loaves of bread,
read the paper, go to school,
go to jobs, go to church,
eat sushi, talk on cell phones,
drink coffee?

How do they ****,
**** and *****?
How do they
get their
shoes shined,
stand in line,
comb their hair,
brush their teeth,
go to the theatre,  
the circus, the carnival?

How do they do
these things and  
so much more when
babies, innocent- beautiful
babies, are born into this
brutal world,
where parents die,
where feral cats carry off
little birds that fall from  
the nest,
where best friends die,
O.D, get hit by cars
drowned or
die from some
strange brain thing.

How do we eat
chocolate, watch football,
and build snowmen?
How do we
visit the zoo,
go to the moon
copulate
*******
******* and
procreate
when hearts still
break,
Sweet Jane dies.
The walk on the
wild side ends,
and the letters we
send get returned?

How do they do it ,
when
dogs get hit by  
cars,
****** roam the bars,
the Dodo’s extinct and
wackos still brutalize
children?
How do people do it?
How do they carry on?

On the edge of autumn,
I see the sky and trees all
ablaze with color.
I can still smell the
smoldering fires of fierce youth,
when the landscape of my
heart was wild;
a wilderness that wouldn't
be tamed.
But I'm afraid that
old age has quenched my
thirst for adventure.
Even my poems have lost their teeth.
Gone are my scabbed up knees and
swords made out of sticks.
No beautiful maidens to rescue;
Just constipation to overcome;
as I listen to the
ticking of the clock.

I am going to dig through
dumpsters today; alone or
with a fellow aluminum
cowboy. Our treasure is
cans. Thank God for
redemption. Each can is
worth a nickel, and if
we get enough of these
shiny miracles, we can
get a pint of *****,
our oasis in the desert.

I sift through trash bags
full of cat **** and broken dreams.
I find: losing lottery tickets,
broken costume jewelry, unwanted
books, and a ***** magazine.
I examine the jewelry closely,
hoping for a diamond or real pearls;
some silver or gold, something I
can pawn or sell and turn into
liquor- no such luck.
The whole thing smells like
death, and ****, and a
city dump in July.

Sometimes I think it
would be easier to just
quit drinking, but to do it
abruptly could **** me,
the withdrawal seizures can be deadly.
As the sun begins to set
on Iowa City, the sky
looks like a butterfly melting.
I haul my black garbage bag, full
of cans, over my shoulder
down the railroad tracks, and
across Highway 6.
I stop to ***** behind
a building, then wipe my
face and continue to
the store- to be redeemed.

The creative mind
never truly sleeps;
it naps 45 minutes
at a time.
Even, that which
appears to be
sleep, is a fitful
state of poetic creativity.
The brain is like
a patchwork quilt
that uses the scraps of
the day's events,
trying to fit symbols
together, like a
jigsaw puzzle.
Here's another one
from the vast
analog of the brain.

I've lost everything I
owned more times than
I can count.
All I had left was
the clothes on my back.
In some ways, there was
a sense of relief.
What else could I lose?
That answer came hard
and fast like the night.
I could lose my health,
my sanity,
my friends,
my sense of peace
and love,
I could lose my
creativity and
the muse
She could end up at
the Deadwood, bellied-up
to the bar, tickling
some young English major.
I could lose a lot more
than I thought

Well, here I sit
in a three-bedroom
house that fell out
of the sky,
a few pieces of clothes,
some food,
coffee and cigarettes.
I have a blue and
orange cast on my
left leg.
I have the cast
because I fell and
broke my ankle
on a debauched
lonely winter
night.
I had surgery
ten days ago.
Now I have
more than I
bargained for, a plate and
screws galore,
and a nice healthy
****** addiction.

I first heard the
lullaby in the
womb.
It has a pulse
and rhythm.
It was embedded in
my tissue and cells.
And when I was shot out,
****** and naked,
the cord was cut.
The journey began.

At five years old,
I remember closing
my eyes, and lying
down to go to sleep,
it felt like I was
being rocked.
I wonder if the
subconscious mind was
remembering the
rhythm of the womb.
My Mom--pregnant with me
walking upstairs--downstairs,
elevators
escalators
movement
pulse,
the eternal lullaby of
the womb.
When I closed my
eyes, it felt like I
was being rocked.
It felt like I was
in a swing;
back and forth.
Easy, like a fragrant
spring night.

I feel and hear the
pulse--the rhythm,
the heart in everything.
In footsteps--in the wind,
in the ancient river, and
in the mermaid's song.
I feel it in
the beating of the
hummingbird's wings.
I see it in
Van Gogh's jagged sky,
in the flight pattern
of the wasp.

There is a rhythm in
death and birth.
Oh my God, the rapture of
the rhythm of love and
joy--so sublime.
The primal beat of a
heartbreak--pain,
like painting with
blood.
So real
too lucid.
Icarus, let's fly into
the sun, drunk on
***** or cheap wine.
We'll escape--liquid smooth,
until our wings melt,
and we fall back down,
crash
to the pulse
the rhythm
***  ***
***  ***
***  ***.

Sometimes,
I wish I were
a rock.

I'm in the hospital strung out on phenobarbital,
And Librium
The last thing in the world I wanted or expected was several Democrats seeking refuge under my bed.
Nancy Peloski (forgive me for my spelling, I'm high like a kite as George W. Bush at a New year's Eve frat party) and friends are
demanding gefilte fish and Matzo ball soup.  Somehow Bernie Sanders is under there, and he's rattling his cup for more scotch... I'm getting ready to push the call light and ask if they would dose them all with some Thorazine so they would go to sleep. I even think they dug Ross Perot up. Either I need more drugs or they need to get these politicians out from under my bed.  Or maybe order more matzo ball soup.

Rolling down the hill;
playing in the grass again.
The future becomes the
past like a strangler of
the night.
My fight comes
and goes, I'm no
longer young.
My storage of strength
seems to have
came and went.
And then like
heaven sent, this woman
shows up at my door.
Nowhere to go, lonely like
so many before.
But unlike the others,
within an hour, she says,
"Let's ****; let me **** on it."
And full disclosure, I'm afraid.
My younger self would
have went at it like a
Tom cat.
I said, "slow down, I don't
even know your name."
She says, It's Jenny are we going to
**** or what?"

I watch the
parade of
trivialities line
up like
hemlock,
like mad dogs
yipping at
my ankles.

I'm too
crafty for them.
I laugh and
yawn
and watch
my cats play with
an electric fish.

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.

I work at a
gym that is 
popular all over
the country, because
of its family values, and
sliding fee scale.
I am a custodial artist.
It's mindless and gives
me time to write.
I get a free membership.

Men walk around the
locker room ****, and
try to have full conversations
with me.
I want to say,
put your **** away,
it doesn't talk.
This is a gym,
not a nudist colony.
I take no delight in
seeing your shriveled *****.


Where is your modesty,
your decency?
Wrap yourself in a
towel before you try
chatting me up about
the weather.
I'm trying to work out,
and then get the **** away
from you screwballs.

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.
Knap sack...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.

In prison
when you have no
money, and you can't
buy commissary, and
the hours and the days drag by
like a tortoise searching
a garden.
It's the little things that
make the time bearable.
Someone gives you a package of
noodles or a cup of coffee,
or a bar of good soap.
Kindness in hell goes a long way.
It's the simple pleasures that
I took for granted
that I relish now:
Steaming hot water,
a bed with a real mattress,
and a library with thousands
of books to read.
I have writing paper,
ink pens, and reading glasses to
see with; it could be worse.

Night comes on like
an old hound lumbering
in from the field.
I don't fight it.
I'm getting too old.
I sit with pen in hand,
and wait for the
darkness to show
me something.

I think about vaginas and
Ireland and fish that
hunt a t night.
I think about
Bukowski and
Beethoven, and the
*******, and a kernel
of corn.
I think about my
life and this night, and
how it is better than
those near-death years of
caterwauling and chaos;
drunk by the river, lonely
as a glass snake.
I was living to drink, and
didn't give a **** about
anyone.
I was searching.
I found it
when the light came.

When I find myself in dire straits,
which is quite frequently,
my guts will get me through.
My feet tend to want to run.
If my guts and courage are on board,
my feet will follow, but left to
their own devices, in any given
situation that is troublesome,
if my feet could talk, they would say,
"**** this, run! "
But usually my guts win out.
I forge into the various battles that
need fought.
Win or lose, when my guts and
feet are in one accord,
it's a glorious day.

She has that
reptilian heart, snake eyes-
cat screeching, rabid anger.
Whenever she's close to
me, I need sedation;
another world-one with
beauty and love.
Hers is a land of
brutality and hatred.
It makes my
soul *****.
When I'm lucky enough to
escape, she finds me, and
lures me back with her
charms and spells.
Then, it's back to the
cage, waiting to be
consumed.
She quit doing drugs.
Her dope now is
control.
It's the dragon that
she rides to hell.

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 sit back in
the place of attack, but equipped for
battle this time;
The enemy won't win.
I laugh at him as
I greet the dawn with
a love soaked heart.
It smells like
leather, and my baby's hair.
I'm fully aware of
the antagonist's snares, and tricks,
but we won't be trapped.
See, this isn't a
tragedy, it's the epitome
of romance and victory.
I'm a stallion, and
she rides me into
the evening as we
eat peaches and
pomegranates, and let
the juice glisten on
our faces in God's
glorious setting sun.

A lot can be
accomplished
when you pull 
the covers over your
head, and just listen.
Tune out all the
distractions and *******.
Let the silence guide you.

Do you see all the
colors whirling around in
your mind?
The greens and the reds?
The indigo and violet?
They are thoughts forming.
Grand, artistic, unbridled thoughts.

People will desperately
try to distract you, and keep
you from this place.
They are a stranger to it.
Phones will go off.
The crowd will knock
at the door,
don't answer, they will
always be there.

Your job is to create in
your beautiful, dark womb.
There is a spark,
electric alchemy going on.
Don't question it.
You are an artist,
and you are giving birth

You rolled across
my body and
soul,
working the
aches out of my
tired back.
This poem won't
behave.
The writing streak
is over.
I know that
all good things
must come to
an end.
The sidewalk
cracks,
the glasses break,
both bull and
matador die.
And when I lie down
at night
on the living
room couch,
the ten steps
to your bed and
to your heart
seem like
a thousand miles away.

I'm back in rehab....never give up.
I just want to thank the hp community for all
the love and support...it's sunshine
in my dark night of the soul.

All my Love,
Thomas W. Case

I've been so lonely
as of late.
I set out to
create a mate.
Oh, who am I
kidding, I'm not
a poet, I'm a doctor,
truth be told,
more of an alchemist.
Going to graveyards
for body parts, all
in the name of
science, I swear....
to create life....boy did
I **** this one up
royally.

In our times,
no one wants
to be politically
incorrect.
"Let's not offend."
seems to be the
chant.
Nice little
sheep
that
stay
in line.
Simple smiles, and
polite applause,
but just
a smattering.
Agreement en masse.

Next time you see
this, look for the
return of public
hangings, the blotting
out of the sun, and the
death of art that is
forged from the
marrow of the spirit.

Love finds me in
the nuthouse
wandering in
Delerium, sweat-drenched
dreams.

She's my ******* angel,
and she ***** the
vagabond poison from
my veins.
Arms are bruised to
a Dijon yellow.

I forgot the
ecstasy of
connection and ******
chemistry.
The heat...the
smiles that set the
bones on fire.
This is birth.

I slept beneath
a mad hatter moon and
dreamed of a big blue
tarantula swimming in
a yellow moss
covered pond. A rat
terrier passed me a note:
Mercy and love
are
fleeting, they fade away
like the
tangerine sun; they
are lies like
the dead bulls under
a ****** red
Spanish sky.
I asked his name,
"Mendacity" he said,
then turned into a
pack of
cigarettes, no matches,
no lighter…

I drank from the
pond and became a
sunflower.
Vincent shot
me with his
lonely cornfield gun.
He sat down and smoked
his pipe, as crows
lied
lied
lied.
He said with sad, iris eyes,
"It's impossible to ****
a mermaid, or eat
a starry night."
It's the impossibility
of a thing that
drives one
mad;
like a mustang
caught for the
circus, but always
dreaming of escape to
the thundering
fields of its youth.
I saw toothless
orphans throw rooks at
his soul, as those beautiful
eyes saw way too much…
I want to
pound
it in,
drive it dripping
home through the
core
of a rose, to the
bottom
of the tulip. I'll
get drunk on
nectar of the god's, then
reject immortality. (Who wants to live forever?)

There has been a drastic
Mistake.
I see it at the
zoo in the
monkeys caged,
glazed eyes.
No wonder they
throw ****
at people.
"Such lies, " he said.
"The artichoke, avocado, and
algebra; the small of
a woman's back and
the emerald head of
the hummingbird."
"If the artichoke and
avocado are lies" I said,
"then truth is the
tight, tasty, creamy
green line that
refuses to settle or waiver;
delirious, delicious."

"No" he said, as
his hands stroked
that lice ridden
crimson beard.
"It's conception and
growth, then cast
out
****** and naked
cut from the
cord,
and a lifetime spent
trying to return
to the womb, **** first,
but only spilling and
spreading the
nightmare of being,
the fever of living, to
another
sorry soul that didn't
ask for it.
I woke up,
drained the elixir,
and starred at
Vinnie's self portrait,
the one with
bandaged ear, and
I
thought…
Yea,
God is into practical jokes.

They say it's
the sport of kings.
I have royal
memories of being
at Santa Anita and
Hollywood Park with
my dad and brother.
As kids, we watched
some of the best horses
and jockeys in the world.
The jocks were our
tiny heroes, gladiators
in silks riding tremendous
beasts.

Dad taught us
how to bet and study
the horses.
He called it
doping the form.
I liked the show bet.
I still cashed the ticket, as
long as the horse didn't
do worse than third.
My heart still gallops when
I think of those Southern
California afternoons.

Dad used to say, don't ever
gamble what you can't
afford to lose.
I live with my brother
now in Iowa.
Dad is long gone, and so is
the shoe, our favorite ****.
There are new jockeys on
the scene.  New horses.

We drove to Des Moines, to do
some off-track betting on
the Kentucky Derby.
The pageantry is decadent.
The hats and mint juleps.
Someone sings a beautiful
version of, My Old Kentucky Home.
It was truly a sublime scene.

Now, we have to
figure out how
we are going to pay
the rent.

When it's quiet, except for
the fan in the hall
and apathy crawls across the
floor like a spider
and the enemies are
thicker than friends
and the brain dries up
and the flame goes out
and writing a decent line is
like panning for gold...
Remember
it's a long row to ***.

When nothing touches
you but the rain
and the wind, and the
pain from the sins of
your youth
and every fruit in
the garden is rotten
and you take a bite
just to keep from starving, and now
what you know can't be forgotten,
remember
it's a long
row to ***.

When each pain is new
and every sorrow is fresh with
the opening of the eyes
and
if
you're blind to the darkness
of the world
or
you see it all too well...
remember
it's still a
long row to ***.

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

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.

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.

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.

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
*******!

I feel like I'm
stuck in a bad
video game,
like pong, from
the first Atari.
And I'm that little  
dot that gets ponged
back and forth.
Life is like a
Scene from Dante's
inferno...
Abandon all hope...
I need mountains,
The ocean,
And the breath of
6 week old puppies.

Sometimes, when I
talk to the ex,
I feel strong
as a rope.
Nothing she says
or does fazes me.
I guard my emotions
and keep the
conversation strictly
about the kids, and
how we can better
co-parent.

Other times, when
we talk,
I feel like
Humpty Dumpty
teetering on a brick
wall.
Her cruel words
are like strong
gusts of wind
sending me to the
cold hard ground
in a thousand pieces.

On days like these
I berate myself,
"What the ****
Is wrong with you?
Why did you
let
her in again?
Her heart is
small and
diseased."

I fell in
love with
hope
and a
false image.
When I saw
reality
It was
like
finding a
snake in my
bed.