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my choice in apparel
leaves a lot to be desired
chicken-skinned legs
A testament

A dog I am
stray
sometimes

Loyal
to the hand
that feeds
when
I am hungry

Wild am I
when you
try to
Name me

My eyes
follow your
motions

Will you
strike me?
or
will you stroke my
***** coat?

I am a fleabag
of no renown

I could be
the muted

I am an object

a victim
for you

to punish
for a life

you never asked for.
Stray Dog Freedom is a raw meditation on conditional love, dehumanization, and the spiritual consequence of becoming someone else's repository for pain. The speaker is rendered not as a metaphor, but as an outcome — an object, a mutt, a thing half-wild and fully aware of its subjugation. Through this lens, the poem explores what happens when the "loved" are only loved as long as they are useful, pliant, or silent.

The voice of the poem is not seeking redemption or sympathy. It is observational, bitter, and still loyal — not to a person, but to its own survival. The “freedom” in the title is deeply ironic: the kind of freedom one has when cast out, when no one lays claim to you — a freedom soaked in shame, and yet, somehow, defiant.

The poem critiques parental, societal, or intimate relationships that project blame onto the vulnerable. It makes no plea for understanding. Instead, it stands at the threshold of animal and human, love and violence, self and object — and it stares.

This is not a poem about becoming.
It’s a poem about enduring.
About what love looks like when it's been punished into silence, and still remains.

It asks:
If I am a stray —
would you strike me?
Or feed me?
And do you know the difference?
Today the weather mirrored me—
gray thoughts hung low, heavy and wide.
I lay in bed, heard leaves brush secrets,
heard the wind howl what I hide.

I peeked through blinds, saw flooded walks,
rain pouring like it never ends.
A world soaked through in quiet grief,
no rush to break, no need to mend.

I stepped outside—my shoes went dark,
each step a soft and sinking sigh.
My hair, once dried from morning’s rinse,
now clung like truths I brushed aside.

Cold traced fingers down my neck,
the air was sharp, the silence loud.
But somehow, soaked and shivering,
it felt like standing in a crowd.

It hasn’t rained in far too long—
just like I haven’t cried for days.
But now the sky and I agree:
we flood in our own sacred ways.
you've been sobbing for
years. Collect them in a paper
cup till they fill up the rivers
surrounding the mountains. Eagles

will drink from fountains
you weep. Water the grass and
your garden with them. Build up
a forest from a thin little stem. Collect

them all in a pool. So, on a hot
summer day the neighborhood kids
can swim and stay cool. Splash in the
puddles they make. Fill up the oceans and

lakes. Don't be so quick to dry them
off of your face. Wash your clothes. Make
a bowl of soup with the salty brine. Drink
them. They're cherry wine.
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                      The Evil of Banality

                       As Hannah Arendt did not exactly say

Handcuffs with their metallic efficiency
Leather-holstered on polished *****-belts
Distinguish more a grab with their subtle cachet
Than low-Prole zip ties in disposable bags

The wrists of citizens handcuffed without warrants
By an official wrist encircled with
The gift of a Rolex from Mister Big
Who will never countenance the arrest of his sons

Handcuffs should click as tastefully, you see
As the door of an unmarked SUV
I love it while
it sleeps--smiling,
wet with tea;
dreaming dormouse dreams.
I tickle its downy fur.
And it laughs and
moans softly.
I want to put it in
my pocket and
carry it everywhere;
take it out on
lonely autumn nights and
play with her until
she's exhausted,
relaxed and rested,
content and lost in my
fingers and in my heart.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOGBCY2FM_c
Here is a link to my YouTube channel. I just put up a new poetry reading from my book, Sleep Always Calls, available on Amazon.com
(This is a repost poem.)
www.thomaswcase.com
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                        Spectrum TV Takes Out the Main Water Line

For two days Spectrum to our surprise did fine
But today they ruptured the water line

(Can ya dig it?)
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                            Having Lost Our Way


                     Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav’n

                                 -Satan in Paradise Lost I.263


Like Gollum we hug our ancient hatreds to ourselves
Clinging to every offense, real or perceived
Chanting with Macbeth’s witches as we stir
Each sullen resentment into the ***

We wish neither to forgive nor to be forgiven
A hand offered in friendship will be eaten
Faith is a bitcoin of unreality
And love is just an excuse for abuse

Like Gollum we hug our ancient hatreds to our deaths
Hissing vituperatives with our very last breaths
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
*******!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozzFlYnbGZU
My latest book, Sleep Always Calls, is now available on Amazon.
Here is a link to my YouTube channel where I read my poetry.
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