About 99moods

Tim D. is a poet.

Undefeated

“Go slow,” my friend warned.

“You don’t want to get wasted too quickly.”

I beg to differ.

Getting wasted quickly is the reason I’m here.

It’s like my mission statement.

Getting Wasted Quickly Since 1978

Wanna get fucked up?

I can help with that.

We don’t need to play drinking games.

Getting drunk is the game and

I’m undefeated.

Was that the first time you got pulled over?

That happens all the time.

Small town cops will drive you home.

Your parents’ wrath is nothing

compared to their disappointment.

You try to sleep it off,

but your dad comes in at 9 AM,

pulls the shade up violently.

“Get up,” he says. “Go cut the grass.”

You feel like shit.

The birds are singing.

The sun beats down.

You throw up on the lawn by the garage.

It kills the grass there.

You’ll go out tonight.

It doesn’t matter where.

Your friends will say, “Go slow.”

You smile.

God likes you.

He looks out for you

as you weave down country roads

in someone else’s car,

as you jump into the river,

as you wobble down dark city streets.

God has plans for you.

He kept you alive for a reason:

to tell jokes,

to write music,

to fall in love,

to write this poem.

 

 

 

 

-Copyright Timothy Downs

David

What was David  thinking,

 

the night before,

 

walking there,

 

the second during,

 

the eternity after?

 

Did he have second thoughts

 

in mid-air?

 

Was there regret

 

or only relief?

 

The moment when you decide:

 

This is what I’m going to do.

 

This is how I fix it.

 

That exact moment

 

is an emotion that

 

doesn’t have a name.

 

You will never know it exists

 

until you feel it.

 

David dissolved

 

into a soft, blue cloud.

 

He’s gone and now

 

he’s everywhere.

 

 

-Copyright Timothy Downs

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,

kinda.

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

unless

you got shot

or

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