Another silent homeward
walk across the Orange Street
                                          bridge
and I wish someone were walking with me.
                               These nights grow long,
                               and the days keep blurring.
My hurried steps wander over seams
of the self I have stitched
                     together from the pieces
of the last few years and the friends I've made.
                     And I'll defend my route
                     until the curtain drops
                                                       again.
                     Awash in quiet, I wait in the wings.

Cast my eyes North and East.
Spring breeze half-waves and passes too quickly.
Cast dice and hard clenched teeth.
Losing bets and snake-eyed bitter apologies.

Now it's a warmish Wednesday
night. I swallow hard. Just
                                        then
turned a bend and halted in my footsteps.
                                these thoughts reach back.
                                Your face at my fingers.
Scars from a car wreck when you were young.
I know they always made
                     you feel kinda self-conscious.
I really liked them. Did I tell you that?
                      It's a moot point, sure,
                      but that shot still smarts.
                                                      Aga­in,
                      feeling like the awkward Oxford Comma.
Showed up late to the party.
Just a mark too far...
                     ...sentenced to revise.

Cast my eyes North and East.
It's gotten late. Guess I should keep walking.
Drink down this history,
losing bets and snake-eyed bitter apologies.

Cast my thoughts North and East,
and I wish that you were walking with me.

The weather's getting warmer
there's still static in your snowy eyes
and moonlight waxing pale shines
               a searchlight
          through this night's
humming summer city haunts
frames your face and splashes mine
with the truth that lies behind
a well-intentioned whitewash lie
                         that we care where we're going,
                         that we know what we're doing
                       and daily life don't scare us blind.

The Warden's got his dogs out,
our feet barely touch the ground.
And we're not looking back until
we hear no chasing sounds
               so sound the fox horn
and catch us napping if you can.
'Cuz we're just killing days,
running all night and foiling plans.

The silver night was spilling
quiet rainstorms on your dark red hair
and my resolve was waning there
               against those
             smiles we wrote
in that crumbling concrete hour.
'Cuz we'd never been that close
to divorcing deceased ghosts
and coming clean from mud-caked boasts
                          that our chains never rattled,
                          that we never felt saddled
                        beneath our heavy, self-sewn cloaks.

The Warden's got his dogs out,
our feet barely touch the ground.
We're never looking back again,
and we won't make a sound
               so sound the fox horn
and catch us napping if you can.
'Cuz we're just killing days,
running all night and foiling plans.

Tunneled under the walls now
it's high time we put some ground
between us and our yesterdays
that howl like baying hounds.
               We'll pound the pavement
and catch a few winks where we can.
And we'll be living days
and sleeping nights and making plans.

Fell asleep under clouds and I woke up here.
Fell asleep under clouds and I woke up here.
With a timestamp expired under looming storms.
The bleeding Spring never leaves
the rainy shores,
When I only wanna
                         live in the Autumn
of two-thousand-and-twelve--
in the days and the hours
before my guts soured.
when my hollow heart leaked down
                          shaking legs
                   into small town streets
                   and I forgot myself.

In the dregs of my doubts.
In the bouts of a cowardly man
                                unqualified
to carry your baggage
                         from the airport in Billings
to the bottom of my parents' stairs.

You stared hard that night
through the North Dakota Winter
and suburban blight.
November air
chilled my lungs and my breathing stopped.

In my Lillingtons hoodie,
I stood sad and shivering
and watched you drive away
through an assaulting army of falling snowflakes.
                            the last words
                  that you'd say to me were--
the last words that you'd say to me were

"I hope you're happy, you stupid scumbag.
No one will ever love you again."

"I hope you're happy, you ******* scumbag.
No one will ever love you again."

Fell asleep in a glass and I woke up here.
Fell asleep by myself and I woke up here.

In the space between paychecks,
walking back and forth to nowhere
in a post-wage, first world shooting gallery,
                         we make
bland backgrounds,
                                dull grey blurs
from miles of stretching, chain link work weeks
                       sore legs stride fast
                        all the same.

Think of climbing but your lead feet won't play.

Blaming long nights for stiff necks,
wax poetic. Piling losses
pin each stanza to our thin, unrav'ling sleeves
                            we'll take
our chances
                        with cheap drinks,
cheap thrills and priceless conversations
                       swelled tongues talk fast
                       all the same.

We're taught to pave the roads to our own graves.

Reached in and picked a winner
from your box of stock phrases.
Finding ways
to roll zero on 2d6.
You ******' missed
                        "**** the bed!"
I guess you're no Kenny Rogers.
Longer losing streaks familiar
to the wisdom of a betting man.

"Carpe Diem" on your calf,
laugh your way to the bank.
But put a stutter on your chuckle
'til the day they seize your wages.
If it "happens for a reason,"
fold your cards and hold your tongue in.
                           Hold your tongue and
                           clamp your teeth.

"What it is is what it is."
That's a "tautology."
They taught me that one in college,
when I took critical theory!
If you seek an explanation,
you're just critically faulting
                           on your dice rolls
                           and your debts.

Reached in and hit the bottom
of your box of stock phrases.
Finding ways
to keep afloat on empty words.
You ******' missed.
                           "Feeling blessed?"
Turns out you're no Kenny Rogers.
Longer losing streaks familiar
to the wisdom of a betting man.

These streets knew feet in days gone by,
bustling sidewalks, crowded storefronts,
laughter, light and dancers leaking
out of smoke-filled bars.
Cars would wind through intersections,
blood cells between neighborhoods.
From The Corner came The Roar.

He remembers how the Autumn sounded
                       back in '84
when Alan Trammell brought The Series home,
the arcing shot off Gibson's bat,
the rolling wave of soaring voices.
                      Old English
                             "D"
              tattooed on the hearts
                        of a city
     who's been hurting since the 50's.

Bless You Boys.
Ya did it--
went and Sparked up Michigan
and lit a dimming town again
in Corktown's widening eyes.

In 20 years, though, losses pile up.
55 and starved for signs
of trends reversing, luck upending,
impending relief or just some kind of
                  something.

Sickening, cloying rapid decay
       as neighborhoods die.
These streets know crumbling cinderblock
walls and blistered paint coats don't
cover ribcages starting to show--
steel girder bones--and windows blown
out, like teeth lost from a well-spoken mouth,
allow the Lake Michigan wind to howl
                      out the tale--
            through oxidized bones--
       of just what it looks like
      when economic war hits home.

Heartbeats still find footing
in Motor City streets, beneath
         the Old English "D,"
but mind the scoreboard smart;
the Tigers lost a hundred games
                    in 2003.