That night we
decided that our streets led nowhere,
so we followed them any place.
Apartments
to grass outside the Molly Brown,
cracking faces, sidewalks, traced our way...

               North on 7th,
             getting warmer.
             Inverted frowns
            are getting larger
                                          Now

I'm wondering if these

               half-formed
               flimsy, brittle life-plans
and
               half-drained,
               dented, warming pint cans
of Schlitz
               clutched inside our fists
               suggest that it's worth it

To pin our hopes on approaching
                                        footsteps of Summer?
Or just halt our frozen
                   progress through the Wintertime
when we reach your front door.

We just kept
decoding all our scrambled rambling
'til we'd set the world on its head.
Keep walking,
keep laughing at our young mistakes,
sober night backdrop to beer soaked breaths.

               X'd out eyes
       and gravel sidewalks.
          Bozeman Autumn.
       Watch out, mailboxes
                                           'cuz

We're wondering if these

               half-formed
               flimsy, crack-filled answers
and
               empty,
               drained, five dollar pitchers
of Pabst
               humming 'neath our caps
               will help us draw our maps

and stick a pin in the Summer,
                                          page turned on Winter,
or just melt our thawing
                                          progress to another time
when later days trickle down.

Are you a wheel
just spinning through your cycles?
          You rolled around;
          my turn today?
Or are you the red-gold autumn moon
          that I howl at?
Am I just a passing phase?

'Cause I've
               been around a while
and I
               can't style up these hours
into any kind of impressive *******
          story that could explain.

Guess I'm an ash-
tray, guts filled up with cinders
               grey faced
     and fouling the atmosphere.
And I guess I'm addicted to this
          upheaval
and a devil's voice in my ears.

Are you a picker
filling up your basket
          chewing up cores
          thrown to one side?
Or are you the grey-green hungry worm
          crawling, curving
through the apples of my eyes?

'Cause I've
               been here so long.
And I
               can't dress up this time
in any kind of inventive falsehood
               or story that would explain.

All those decorations from last season
on your door,
they won't help your fading memories
to last.
Let's admit that we're all ghosts in waiting.
     Knock one back with me.
We can rattle our chains to Christmases past.

Tally up.
Count the sum.
See, I've got a clever face.
But I ain't no plastic monkey on your dashboard.
'Cuz I've done my share of sinning
and I've told my share of lies.
But this heart's built ******* tough like a Ford.

Come again
to the ball.
We can bring along our masks.
We can hide our pretty faces' ugly creases.
We can laugh. We can dance.
We can pretend we're still young.
But we can't deny our dents.
          Not tonight.

No, I won't deny my dents--Not tonight.

Out the door,
night is cold.
Let the band begin again.
Doubt me now, but I am only getting warmed up.
Though you've done your share of dancing,
you're not really wanting out.
Just like me: you never like an empty cup.

Tally up.
Count the sum.
I might be deaf, blind and dumb.
I ain't like the ******* monkeys on your dashboard.
I'm just a ghost in ***** sheets
and I have made my share of beds
and I believe I'll ******* sleep fine tonight.

And you should try and sleep fine tonight.

Well, all those pretty lights, strung up
last season on your door,
they won't help your fading fortitude to last.
Let's confess that we're just ghosts in waiting.
          One more dance with me.
We can haunt this town and recall Christmas past.

Don't you ever threaten me
with a good time.
     I'll show you I'm the favored horse
     4 seconds from the finish line.
Let's see how long it takes me
to upend my life.
     It's been a fun night
     but I am just about to freeze inside.

It's the Fall
          and the way years go
Or it's me; just me
hanging promises from ropes
from this living room ceiling.
          in the dark
searching eyes half-closed around me.

I'm just M-80 careless. Short fuse
          about to blow
all these hopes, all these plans
across this carpet, out these windows.

Small man of stained glass
ribbon feet, slashed hands.
Favored horse on toxic lawn,
grazing glue shop grass.

Fall of 2012.
Cold wind, early snow
blowing in from the North
and getting deep and I know
I'm getting buried here.
I'll never see the Sun again.
And I have made my icy bed,
so let me sleep a hundred years.

Don't you ever threaten me
with a good time.
     I'll show you I'm the favored horse
     4 seconds from the finish line.
The winds have started howling
and the waterline's high,
     but I've made my bed on bags of sand
     so let me wash out at low tide.

Autumn racing red and gold
behind half-open eyes of icy blue.
27th Fall. Step into cold
          and race through
          alleyways I've known.
A crunching stride, solitary breaths.
               Staccato notes
banged out on sidewalks' grey scales...

               ...I'm every inch
          of this softened ground,
these shoe treads, hieroglyphics...

               ...My town appends
                      its runic fate
                                    onto
              my story's granite page.

Crisping air, engulf my lungs.
Ensconce my face in drowsy weather.
Sleepy eyelids, sliding down
to Main & Dow Street. Watch me hover
                                         along the margins.
These last 4 months of quiet aching
engraved in me come roaring out now.
               Autumn streets stay silent.

And Kendrick Park
               has whispered low
                              in bashful rustling;
I climb the boardwalk,
               my thoughts are gilded,
                              responding slowly.

The breeze abates,
               it's halfway warm.
                              Bellevue & Lewis
I am a statue;
               smooth, cold marble,
                              still in November.

And, soon, the Summer comes with angry glares.
And, soon, this stony face will disappear.

These months will always linger in me.
Does my ghost haunt this place already?

I'll return here every Autumn when

October signs off on the Summer's death.

And I'll be tracing all your features with

forgotten footsteps' ancient hieroglyphs...

There's a place for those
like you and me, kid--staring
through this window pane, at odds
for hours. Conversations even out
these nights 'til a year's passed.
A smile of glass that dies too fast
ain't all we're sharing; just the
loudest thing we're sharing, staring
through this silent frame.

There's a place for those
like you and me--where we can go
when seasons roll
               around our guts
               and come back up
in boiling years.
          That place is here,
in this square frame,
with our smile of glass that breaks
           too fast
when dice cast cry out snake eyes;
          ours are blue,
and some are brown.

But she looks pretty
                         happy
                           now.

So it's back into this mirror frame
for debates had through window panes
and scrubbing hard with scalding water
          rinsing off our name.

From distant space in between
                                           spaces,
we watch plotting out the course.
The Human Race blind to its fate,
asleep controlled beyond the stars.

Through eons old and light years cold,
we came with sinister intent.
We've guided history for centuries
toward the doom of men.

We watch from the quiet spaces between
          where no mere mortal has ever gone.
We watch as we always have; still unseen
          and we've been here all along.
We watch for a moment soon to come. They
          have no clue as they drift through their days.
The Moon is full, the stars are right. We rise
          from the places where
                     we watch...

In darkened cellars of old
                            buildings
and in remote mountain woods
exist faint traces of our race;
fragments of knowledge no one should

pursue at all. When darkness falls,
some half-remember our dark names.
Cover of night hides ancient rites.
Our moment's drawing near again.

Our names leak from whisp'ring lips all quiv'ring
          spoken low beneath audible tones.
Foul symbols in air shaking hands tracing,
          memorized from profane tomes.
We wait as the ritual's unfolding
          poised to take our rightful place on top.
The stars are right, the chanting's high. We rise
          from the places where
                    we watch...

World turns through the ages and
                  we watch.

Ancient ones, our time is nigh.
                 We watch.

Don't resist. We're coming through.
               WE WATCH.