Tuesday, January 29, 2019

The Drive Home

was wet
and slippery
so was the passionate
drunken fuck

I'm glad
we took a cab

the morning has come
the beer goggles
now gone

coyote ugly
has set in
for us both

it's been
the same routine
for years
there's only
one thing
left to do

crack a bottle
make some breakfast
and fall in
all over

that's how
you keep the
when you can't stand
the sight
of one another

or so
I've been

Dying Birds Pretending

I will shape myself
into who you need me
to be

a puzzle piece
to fill that

if you
shed the skin
we take
for granted
to patch my wounds

we can bring
to the dying
in our rib cages
to be

layer them
with momentary

and hope
that it

Damn Clown

My guardian angel, 
drunk on whiskey,
dancing with the clown
that passed her the bottle.

Inhibitions set free.
Sailing away
with the gentle breeze. . .

naked and laughing.

I try hard,
really hard,
to be a good man.
But that damn clown
always screws it up.

So, I take the bottle,
get naked,
and start a fire.

I might as well join in the fun.
I am the clown
after all.

The Smell of Sulfur in the Morning

i can't get the stink out
no matter how many times
i change the locks on the
purest hell that makes me
feel whole

midget porn and cocaine
are just as addictive as
coffee and cigarettes

we all have our vices
we all have our own
crosses and scars
to bear

stinking up the room
like farts in hell

Honor of the Gods

The cool wind has come and gone 
Stars not shining in the sky 
Winking now gone with the breeze 
Time has slowed to a crawl 
Almost stopping the world it seems 

Today we long for yesteryear 
Upon the thoughts of forgotten things 
What does honor mean to the gods 
I doubt we will ever know 
Sometimes the moon and sun 
Chase each other in this dream 
As they wonder the same thing 

Residing inside the universal mind 
All of us the galaxy 
Time and space manifesting itself 
Only to experience itself 

The honor lives in each of our hearts 
In each moment saved as a memory 

I can not tell you 
What honor means to the gods 
Yet I can tell you what it means to me 

I honor the stars 
The moon and sun 
Cool wind and warm breeze 
Father Time 
Mother Earth
Most of all our galaxy 
In our universe 
That saw it fit to give us life

Only the Wounded

Tell me a story of the now and then.
I was saved once.

Or maybe thrice.

The stars are your eyes. 
Wind your hand.

I have come to this place.
Seeking your knowledge.
Present it to me.
So that I can behold.

Underneath this starry sky.
I know you see me.
Trees sway as you touch my face.

Afterthoughts no longer speak.
Of the unaware mind lost.
Send me back to that place.

Diving through a cloud of fiction.
Picking up speed.
Landing too hard. 
In a six foot deep rectangular hole.

The salvation of the senses.
Only the wounded will understand.

James D. Casey IV is the author of six poetry books, founder and editor-in-chief of Cajun Mutt Press, and extensively published by small press venues and literary magazines internationally. He is a southern poet with roots in Louisiana & Mississippi, currently residing in Illinois with his Beautiful Muse, their retarded dog, and two black cats.
Links to his books and other projects can be found here:

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