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You've stumbled onto the personal website of Case Duckworth, soon-to-be-household-name poet, bookmobile driver, computer enthusiast, casual cartoonist, and hobbyist cook living in Louisiana. I also read a lot, mostly to procrastinate at work; regardless, I write about that stuff too. The most recent things I read about included pedestrians, coastlines, and navigation.

most recent posts

A confluence of events means they all happen at the same time


The applause in the hall turned on like a tap
and poured over the players who washed
in it as they would they imagined wash in
a waterfall. Everyone rushed out soon after
and congratulated each other backstage
as did the spectators in front of the bar
as they shrugged on their winter coats to brave
the November evening which is made of myth
as everyone who knows anything is aware.
At this time the oboist felt a sharp pain
and fell down on the hardwood floor of the stage
where he’d gone to collect a forgotten reed
and at this time a taxi driver who’d just
pulled in to pick up a furred woman
got a phone call causing her to drive
into a fire hydrant shooting a burst of water
straight up three storeys or more where it
surprised a child in their apartment
who was just waking up from a nightmare
and it confused her very much. She ran
to her parents watching television
breaking news of something loud and explosive
very far away and she told them about it
and they looked unconcerned about the relatively
nothing phenomenon on the street.
Meanwhile the oboist lay there and another
orchestra member maybe the second cellist
called an ambulance and the operator
sent one and also a police cruiser to take
the statement of the taxi driver who cried
all through the ordeal because she’d just
got news that most of her family back home
had died in an explosion while the parents
of the child set their expressions like stones
and sighed and looked at each other and thought
We’re so glad nothing like that happens here.



The slow way today was too slow
it turns out that cars drive best
on highways where they tick over
like a wall clock measuring
the time in the kitchen
sugar in the cake batter
cinnamon in the pancakes dripping
into the pan slowly like sand
in an hourglass these are the days
these are always the days
they always were bright and slow
and full of something like batter

Good Friday


You come unbidden, a night wind
kicking up dust, a kid with his can
of soup, five cents back at the factory
in Minnesota, too bad you’re in Tennessee
and the woods close in on all
sides, a family surrounding a baby’s crib,
cooing, doves on the branches, a creek
burbling under them, rocks sighing in
the coolness, a breeze of water on their
parched skin, a balm, from Gilead maybe,
the banks like pews all down the aisle
on Sunday, acolytes with their slow
deliberateness, lighting the candles, the soul
of christ has come to visit us again
for about an hour or so, we have
to get out in time for football.