You say you spent two years sleep-
walking all around here,
past convenience stores and dead ends.
Steering blind while the suburbs blurred,
your sneering eyes grew tired
like my slurring verbage

                                           Now with our words just circling 'round
                                           we'll shout right into the drain
                                           blaming newer faults on old targets...
                                            
         ­                                               And I can only say...

That you won't see me
playing Kings & Creeps
when the whiskey's gone
and this here card game's out of reach.
When the fingers point, it's nothing doing,
stated bluntly.
We're saying nothing again.

Now I've been eating crow with
a side of consternation
through a swelling, allergic throat.
Choking down all my dumbest thoughts.
My token frown flips up
when your smile turns caustic.

                                             And with the tension boiling down,
                                             bubbling up from our heads,
                                             we'll pour it out on old targets...

                                             It seems we've spilled again...

But you don't hear me
crying, "Kings & Creeps"
when the music dies
and we stand, staring at our feet.
With an unhinged jaw, even a snake can
swallow some things--
digest them back in the den.

We're saying nothing again.

Slack-jawed, wide-eyed
          tongue-tied
          and terrified
of what went left unsaid,
                I froze,
a feature of the static night.
From Summer's boiling tension
to December's weary ice
                               we'd drive
                        and count the times
             we thought we'd finally got it right.
But then
          the weight of discount decades
wrapped our chests in dynamite--
              criss-crossed trunks,
        and slant-grinned garlands
      blowing up the Christmas Tree.
Apologize later for ******* up the party;
     we were gone already anyway
with frigid wind flaying fingertips and ears.
                   Back to the car.
                  One more drive.
       One more night to half believe
           we'll get it right this time.
But what's so new about a New Year?
Still can't swallow all this scary size.
Guess we'll always be here, shrugging
            Slack-jawed, wide-eyed,
                      tongue-tied
                    ­ and terrified.

Plot a course through downtown doors
then drift along the concrete shores
of asphalt oceans navigated
          under stars
          imitating
     broken curbside glass--
     over crunching gravel miles
          measured in half-hours
and meted out in heavy, fogging breaths
          and squinting, midnight eyes...

Counted out the blocks, counted steps
and concrete squares by metered
three-four thoughts dancing across
     reflected skylines, just behind the eyes.

Each step's a held breath,
each footfall a prayer on crumpled paper,
each set of shoulders, a hanger for...

                                        coats are homes
                                             for hands
                                    rolling up in pockets
fishing for some solid anchor,
sinking into years of walks and silent words like these.

                                   * * *

Listing hard, adrift for years
     water-logged and pocked--
                    no anchor--
shredded sails and leaning masts
                    tell stories
                  of deck fires:
                   leaping rats,
             and charred strakes

Clear deck,
               empty hold,
                              abandoned helm.
                     this coat's Atlantic fog.
Frayed rigging like cobwebs stretch
          down and across
like lines on faces aged by the frost
          on midnight walks.

Strike the colors, mate...
Admit you're lost.

I wouldn't say I wasn't hoping--
wondering what it'd be like--
to strike the band up, strike a spark
and set your amber eyes alight.

The night was warm. I almost froze up.
You flowed through my awkward ice.
We walked home laughing,
                             I was fading.
                             Drenched...

Your voice was red wine on the night...

                                           I'm alive;
                           I guess the Winter lost one.
                Scraping frost off a tarnished record, now.
                                     Spin the season.
                          Warming up to Springtime.
             Pour out beside me under iron purple clouds.

I kept a cask of my best stories
fermenting for nights like this,
to fill your glass, distill the tension,
drown the thirst of shots we'd missed.

The night wore on. You told the Winter,
"Smiles're mine--you keep the rest."
We thawed the town out
                          with a buzzing
                          warmth

spread through our drunk and laughing chests...

                                                      ­              Orange Street
                                                          ­          bridge.
                                               ­                     Melting in the dark.
                                                           ­         Lots cast:
                                                           ­         two stones in the Clark Fork.
                                                           ­         Walk back,
                                                           ­         we're
                                                  ­                  run-off from downtown.
                                                       ­             Four sheets,
                                                         ­           after
                                                                ­    breezes, get turned down.

                                        I'm alive;
                           I guess the Winter lost one.
                Scraping frost off a tarnished record, now.
                                     Spin the season.
                          Warming up to Springtime.
             Pour out beside me under iron purple clouds.

                                 Nothing gained
                       worth a ****'s assured, so
                tip a glass, tilt a grin and angle home.
                               A thousand lights
                       pinned to night, 6 blocks left.
     We're catching up. Where'd our mislaid footsteps go?
            
                       Led us right here, I suppose.

Settle down
I'm sinking in
     to this dingy motel tub.
Stain the water
     with the paint
from my sardonic, smiling face
now, babe, I got a flower in my hatband and
a sloshing bottle in my white gloved hand.
     Do you think we'll still be laughing
                              in the morning...?

Blinking lights and bleary eyes
in a neon wash for a bloodshot lifetime,
and a swallow
     is all I wanna take.

     Besides, I'm still holding the bag.

Puddle up
pull the plug
     colors circle 'round the drain
Pollute the night
     with a laugh
from inside this facepaint bath.
And, babe, I been swirled 'round the world's full glass
and, for a bit, I guess, it was a helluva gas
but, ya know,
                  nobody makes it in the end...
                  
                  so where's the joke end or begin?

Reddened nose and ***** jokes.
Life's a vacation, I'm a pig in a poke
and a mouthful
     is all I need to take...

     We all get left holding the bag.

You said I had a face like
                 cinder blocks at sunrise:
Ash grey staining
                 red in the ending night.
The late winter cold
leaked down into my bones.
You pulled my hood up,
kissed me once and walked home.

                                I was a weak
                                 kneed floater
                                 that night.

It was a month to forget buried heart dents and debts.
You let me ride on the back of one more losing bet.
                                 The deck's cut,
                                    it's raining
                                       outside

If I had
       one more card
tucked up my sleeve, I'd lay it down
                      you wouldn't play
                      'cuz your hand's weak
Game's no fun. Folding. Heading straight out the door
                   Cashed in your chips and that's fine.

                   I'll take off and try to stay dry.

Your living room was greyscale
                 blue and white at midnight.
Ash on my tongue,
                 had X's in my eyes.
I'll choke down the bile
building up in my throat--
this mouth full of crow.
I'll walk out, grab my coat.

                              from your couch
                             turn the **** and
                                       I'm gone.

It was a month to forget buried heart dents and debts.
You let me ride on the back of one more losing bet.
Kick up my heels, over pavement, walk home.
Half-rain and half-snow. Half a mile left to go.
                                    the jig's up
                               and our steps were
                                      all wrong.

Let's take this
      time to find
some ground for standing. Thawing out,
                      I'll leak away
                      with the meltwash.
One more week draining to the Columbia
                   and your front step'll be dry.

                   ...and your front step'll be dry...

Keyring's clinking on my cut time stride
under lights, buzzing islands in the ink sea night.
Slink away from my murky years,
                  they're piling up
and I'm hunched, walking dumb
          across the hazard yellow lines.

Behind me
          the night just rolls up
almost outruns me to my front doorstep.
                                                The hungry
hills enclose
                    our mid-size
                    opaque town.

Old partners,
          forgotten crimes we
did and left trails of clues, all gutshot
                                       creep hunching
through this skull
                      beneath a
                      fraying cap.

Keyrings jangle like anxieties
in my chest, humming static in the core of me.
Sinking in to familiar tones;
                  shades purple grey.
And it's cold, striding slow
          through the west side warehouse lots.

Behind me
          the teeming sidewalks
shout half-slurred spears at my back retreating.
                                                The half-light
spills itself
                    on wrinkled,
                    trenching brows.

And out there
          the night just rolls up
to darken the mat by your front doorstep.
                                                You're just a
single thought
                    and several
                    miles away.