About 99moods

Tim D. is a poet.

Watching TV

God watches us on cable TV.

He’s like, “What the fuck?”

Sometimes He watches football but

He steadfastly refuses to cheer for Notre Dame

or impact the outcome in any manner.

He watches The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and Atlanta and

He dislikes them all equally.

He loves The Price is Right.

He’s embarrassed when He watches The Bachelor

just like the rest of us.

God channel surfs.

He watches Aleppo on CNN and

wonders to Himself about free will.

He turns to ESPN,

watches in awe as LeBron and Stephen Curry light it up.

He prefers pop culture over high art.

He hates country music.

He feels bad about Prince.

He hopes Oasis get back together but

so far has been unwilling to intervene.

God watches Animal Planet, Hoarders and movies on HBO.

He likes Justin Timberlake, Dave Chappelle and Chris Rock.

God hates almost all of the Christmas specials

except the Charlie Brown one,


God yawns, turns His TV off

with His universal remote,

goes into the kitchen

to make a snack.

-Copyright Tim D.

What Ashley Said

On Sunday morning,

22 year old babies

text each other relentlessly

about the things that happened last night,

as if it matters somehow.

But no one cares

what Ashley said,

if you got sick or

got laid or

lost your car keys.

None of it matters


you got shot


you fell in love.

-Copyright Timothy Downs

Blue Like This

When I’m blue like this,

my stomach boils like a pot on the stove,

churning sick and desperate.

This is the future.

This is the past.

This is permanent.

This room is a prison

I don’t want to leave.

I’ve been institutionalized.

The real world has no place for me.

It offers no comfort,

gives me no love.

Someone takes a dinner fork and

scratches my brain with it,

like a DJ cutting a record.

There’s no one to blame.

There’s no one on this planet

except me and

I don’t belong here.

(I guess that’s why I’ve always got the blues.)

Blue like this,

blue like this,

blue like that,

like always.

-Copyright Timothy Downs

Middle School

Minnehaha Middle School,

Grades 5 through 8.


We had butt ugly brown and yellow tote bags

for our gym clothes.


We were the first class to use

the new band room,


the new locker room,

classrooms and library.


I had Mrs. Sega,

then Mr. Schreyer,


then B.J. and finally Black Joe.

These were my homeroom teachers.


I was in love with both the Widen girls

cos they were twins


(Cindi and Wendy) and

I couldn’t tell them apart.


I had my dad for band.

I wanted to play the drums, but


he said, I’ve got ten drummers already.

You’ll play the French horn.


Thank God for basketball

at Minnehaha Middle School.





-Copyright Timothy Downs


If you put your head on my chest,

you can hear my heart playing the drums.

If you put a seashell up to your ear,

you can hear the Beatles.

If you put your ear to the ground,

you can hear the earth ticking.

It won’t be long now until

you and I and everything

are buried by water and sand and

all of this,

the fighting and the fucking,

will mean nothing.

Look at the stars.

Turn the music up.



-Copyright Timothy Downs

Super Fuzz

Me and this guy from work

decided to start a band.

We decided to name it

Super Fuzz,

which I thought was a good name, and

naming the band is really

an important step.

(Otherwise, you may end up with a good band

with a stupid name,

like Foo Fighters or Goo Goo Dolls.)

Alas, it turned out that my co-worker

was more weird than talented.


So I’m still looking to start a band.

The flyer will read:

Super Fuzz seeks like-minded power poppers

to play guitar bass keys drums and harmony,

fill stadiums and/or coffee shops

with songs about love and

other drugs.

Please call or text Tim D. at 867-5309.

Please have your own gear and

your own desperate dreams and

an open mind.

*Must know at least A, E, G and D.


I’ll put this flyer up at Dunn Brothers,

maybe Cheapo or Roadrunner,

post it on Craigslist, too.

At some point,

the phone will ring and

it will be that strange fucker from work.


I will continue to be Super Fuzz

all by myself.






-Copyright Timothy Downs


I was on the bus that day

coming home from downtown,

aimed at the East Hillside.

My friend Rob was riding too.

We greeted each other,

commiserated briefly about our shitty cars and

then he asked me

what I was doing

for the rest of the day.

It was early afternoon and

I had nothing planned,

so I said, “Nada.”

He said, “It’s my birthday and

my brother sent me two hits of acid

in a birthday card.

Wanna trip?”

I thought about it for a second,

then said, “Sure.”


It was beautiful.


A hundred years later,

I remember two things clearly.

One: How frightened I became

sitting in Rob’s room,

listening to him play his bass at top volume.

It felt like the devil’s heartbeat.

I was frozen.


Two: Sitting on the porch roof

watching a father play catch

with his 8 year old son

on the Little League field

across the street.

The sky was glowing blue shades of gold.

The birds were singing in Spanish.

I blinked once and

took a picture

with my heart.


I still have it.





  • Copyright Timothy Downs 2016