The way that Villard Street composes a tease I take every time,
as if I'll get all the way to Bozeman Creek;
drive my car into the culvert and wash away a year or 15...
Or how the trees on South Willson won't let me forget
the bookstore I loved before, back then--

Back when?
...when it was there. Never mind.

Leaves breeze-swaying/dancing to the rhythm of a laughter
     caught bitter in a swelling throat.

I remember a reminder. 7th & College. I'm not supposed to be here
          by now.
This is a future my youth had rejected.
     Never signed up for.
There's a piece of my fingerprint removed; it's shaped like
Scott Street--like rain in Osborne Village.

There's a piece of my Gallatin ghostwalk that's the color of Polo Park Mall.
It makes a Province of sense, but States nothing at all.
I'm invisible here.
                                Might be there too.
But my insides--my infrastructure--were set up for Corydon Avenue
and the R.M. of East St. Paul.

You-me mailed a promise to me-you back then

     BACK. WHEN?
NEVER MIND.

from this Cat pawed zip code to R2E 1B9 and then what?

                                                          ­been a long time

Been a while for brown eyes to run dry. Drag my blue through the mud on Pembina Highway,
Dry my tired center out and sew me up, I guess, with
   a stitching
of 11th and Alderson. Try to debride these festering wounds
I gave myself, back in Kildonan or sliced open on Bird's Hill Road.

Had long enough to heal, ain't ya?
        I guess I've had long enough

Shriek

Throw this flesh into wind for to be tattered.

Flense & flay me; sprayed hot onto cold asphalt. Ribbon shred.

This isn't loving Summer, no. Springtime is
planting-
     gestation--
          gasping births---
                violence.
The invasion that is existing.

The Green of April is no gleaming emerald;
It is fury. It is ravenous hunger. It is manic desperation to be
It is the razor's edge of bleeding insistence.

Remove these bones. Festoon your thoughts with the sting and the ache. These verbs are command form. It is Spring.

That ripping. That fibrous, fluid tear. You hear it, yes?

Tilt me over and spill my ******* guts out.
Clouds of grey and bright red rain--squall of ichor. Knife wind.

Let us weep thunderstorms. Chagrin these Gods of Drought.

Howl

Scream for us both. Wail until the throat bleeds. Blood decanter.
Pour us out of you until the sidewalk hides from the cold.

Chilly today! Should've brought an anorak, eh?

Gale force wind. Tear me up. Spare no expense, accept no substitutes.
Leave no intact iota. Return me to my component parts. Atomize me.
Untangle us, we are a tragedy.
...And, after all, this is a slasher, yeah?

I mean. At least distract me. Ya know?

I wanted to look to you like I was dancing
But the bugs on my bark weren't moving enough
I kept reaching skyward and praying for wind
     Never comes to a call, does it?
You could trace each fissure on my surface--why don'chya?--
     Find stories and runnels for flowing sap
Saw me off at the hip, maybe. See what jokes my rings have to tell

I'm tired of waiting for wind; I want to dance (I think?)

I wanted to look to you like I was thoughtful
So I sliced off a sheet of cyan and I robbed the sky
You called me "thief." ******' mean
     Always reaching for silver, aren't we?
Try to touch irises, press pupils. I've never been further than now
     Stories all end, so I'm told. But this one? Still going
Hacked apart, trying to show you my pieces. Chunks. Rough mince

So I stole again to pay the sky back. Ex nihilo, nihil fit
I can pour from empty, because I'm magic, baby!

I wanted to want to see you in Springtime
But we can't scrape Winter off our faces
     Sling me a flat stone that I can send spinning
Slapping across the water's surface
Did I hit the opposite bank? You could stitch together separate days
     if you only had the sinew and a proper needle
Blown apart by wind and explosive expecting. Chunks. Rough mince

I'm tired of waiting for wind. I'm tired of wanting to dance (I think?)
Not magic--well--not the kind that isn't bone and blood and skin
That's the sort of magic that doesn't exist.

I don't think I earned my name
When I was born, my mother sighed
               the second she
           was finished crying
Saturate the atmosphere and mix me in
              with molecules.
Invisible. I'm only air.
At least until I am exhaled.
                   And then?
Carbon monoxide. Waste product.
            Respiratory excreta.

I don't think I want my name.
And, even though I love this place,
                    the fact remains
                    it don't love me
                  and I can't make it...

               They still get bored so fast.
         And I can't tell if I can blame them.
                     But it used to last
                        a little longer.
           Longer strides and clearer eyes.
        Aching less from years' less crying.

Ache with me? I'm begging you.
Stay awhile or call me crazy. Just don't keep me caught
                           on this line.
No more warm or candied lies, no jangling nerve, anxiety
or brutal, ****** truths out hunting.

I know I am not interesting, but mercy on me please.
                   don't leave me yet or tire...
But, no, I am uninteresting--the gravest crime of our day.

I don't think you know my name.

Grain soaked in salt spray
Yet firm beneath the feet,
Find reasons for best salvation
The second ship scuttled
So, then, stand a third.
         A fourth.

Halted in haploid afterglow
A single heritage, halted ambition.
One path to a keystone past
Tethered to the tossing waves.

In your heart the hardest rains;
a springtime tempest made of weapon-weather

The whale's road you wander,
Searching for slumbering reasons;
I name you "Somnambulist."
Asleep in the dreaming, but weakened awake.

Ghosts and beasts know--both aware of your diploid scheming
Two paths to ******* dreaming
Twin protrusions in fate's firm fist
And deepest waters crash and strike
against smallest frames, the quivering wave oak.

Each one alone among the swan-way's waves.
Same way as in wending through life.
              Just as in dying

We both had enough of the poison Springtime
So you picked me up, and you started driving.
               The street's Westbound,
                rain and wipers pound.
We can be reborn if we can just depart
                             our town.

Race away--
                  --like we'd set fire to Bon-Ton
Lose a day...
                   ...take 84 past the county line.
               Let the rain keep time on the sunroof
                                  'til we're fine.

                              Do they ever feel it?
                                --Someone does!
                          The grinding. Rewinding,
                                hit play to repeat
                                          and then
                                          get paid.

                                        The payoff?
                                      You'll stave off
                          14 lies from their dead end eyes
                                     for one fortnight.

                                        Be forthright.
                                        Am I blind?
                                   Or do I detect that
                               our headaches kind of rhyme?

Make us reborn this time; phoenix down and back upright.
Continued the drive and the world we're righting.
                                 We killed our time
                               and came back to life
Just in time to return to our twinkling
                                         town lights.

When we have our fill of the pissant Summer,
let me pick you up and we'll head out driving.
                   past the Cannery
                until Rouse turns free
our zipped up obits that we can't speak
                          cleanly.

Race away--
                  --like we'd set fire to Bon-Ton
Lose a day...
                   ...take 84 past the county line.
               Let the rain keep time on the sunroof
                                  'til we're fine.

                                Let the rain keep time
                                    on the sunroof.

                               You'll be fine...