It's like coming back to an empty room,
filling blanks with my mind
while I look for you.
It's the half-life
of my memories
that betrays me now as I replay through each scene.

Holding the bag
    of fast fading photos
and stumbling home alone past windows
that could've been ours.
Now I can't remember
my getaway plan.
That year's November
     dropped me into cold;
arrested breaths

               sold me out
     3 years, still scared to death...

...that the time'll prove you right,
that no indictment ever left a man so blind.
I'll sit in the dark, then lie on the floor.
But Justice can see you've gone so
               far on your own way
               and that's just fine.

When this empty room echoes,
that sound is mine.

Trip through the doorway in domestic dark
in this sick span of space
where it echoes stark.
And it sounds wrong
to my puzzled ears.
Nothing fits in this vacant place without you here.

What good's a home
     when it's all ghosts and regrets
and one lonely soul resisting egress?
These fumbling hours
spent searching for landmarks
that used to be here,
can't find them so far.
     dropping into slow
arrested breaths

               Won't go out
     3 years, still scared to death...

...that my memory's decayed
that the best of me invested got mislaid.
I'll sit in this room, in the thick, empty dark.
And, now, I can see you've gone so
               far on your own way
               and that's just fine.

Now the silence here echoes;
I'm losing time.

It aches when I smile.
My State's a disaster.
Coal rollers, burnouts and days full of rapturous
laughter and "Red Face"
down in Lusk in the hot days
of Summer--it's boiling;
Winter winds burn up your face.
I first learned to hate
myself in a snowstorm
on Dow Street in Sheridan.
My best friends are the slow warmth
that spreads through the chest,
lifts a cold heart, grabs popcorn and pints
at the Blacktooth on hundreds of nights.
And 500,000 simple souls are a sight.
Still they're just half a million salty
drops in the ocean--
A quick squall of rain on the Bighorns.
They've opened the floodgates for *******,
morons, bigots and rednecks
and rich, ******* ranchers thinking
          everyone owes them.
And their dollars are deadpan
gallows jokes down in Cheyenne.
But I've seen cheap smiles 4 miles wide
out by Sundance.
And I've got good friends that I still carry with me
like the potent, sweet, earthy afterburn of good whiskey,
or the smell of the lodgepoles in the Spring
up in Story.
And it's still my home
even though it's so empty.
It's still my home
though it sometimes seems ******.
That State's in my bones,
I don't think it'll leave me.
So please understand that some nights
when you find me,
you've stumbled across a small splinter
chipped off of Wyoming.

Signed us up. One more round.
Stagger through another year
of attrition, searing heat and self-effacement.
When that black **** bubbles up
                       through every crevice in the ground,
we'll know our heroes finally died
                       down in the basement.

This city's getting small.
I've gotten mean, you're getting old.
But your cold feet won't save you
when you're dancing on those coals.
The verdict's been returned,
it seems they're moving to convict.
And I can't really blame them anymore.

Every Summer it gets hotter
than a crooked priest's Hell.
But we're shaking while we sweat
with too much time that's left to ****,
'cuz it's ****** in the courtroom
when the judge cracks a joke.
But you've heard this ******* punchline before.

Here we go, one more time.
Keep it fluid, keep it light
as you're waltzing through these streets that aren't your friends now.
You've got so much love to give,
                        I won't say what I've done with mine.
But there's no such thing as rest
                        for tired, old clowns.

Light me up, then play me out.
Stumble through another year
of attrition, mounting bills and self-debasement.
When that black **** bubbles up
                        through every crevice in the ground,
we'll know our heroes finally died
                        down in the basement.

Day's last thoughts play
through the creases of my sleepy mind.
Questions pile like the flakes
on the sidewalks outside.
Square of purple light in my white wall,
                               painted night grey,
glimpse of snowfall--a buzzing, fuzzed-out
scrambled teleplay.

Through interference I'll slide
                                      eventually
          ­                                          down into
                                                     dreaming.
and change the program.
For now, the channel remains right here.
The Winter flickers 'cross my face.

And that window's purple
                              square is a small piece
of a tired world just trying to fall asleep;
A single view of a wider picture
that covers miles. Bends lines into a face.

Impulses race through a fading mind.
Snow is piling deeper
on the bike path outside.
Retrace my steps as eye lids close
                                over distance
Still that square glows--a buzzing, fuzzed-out
scrambled episode.

Through interference I'll slide
                                      eventually
          ­                                          down into
                                                     dreaming
behind the credits.
For now the channel remains right here.
Half-smile flickers 'cross my face.
A different place and some different ways
to transmit greetings across this space
and to broadcast all our withheld wishes
                                             would be fine.

                       But tomorrow I'll wake up.

             And these re-runs never stop.

And that window's purple
                              square is a small piece
of a tired world just trying to fall asleep;
A single snowy, interfered picture.
                   A half-formed question:
     Are you watching this same thing?

A swarm of angry gulls
is whirling overhead.
Our breaths both reek of ***.
And there's a fire on the deck.

Baby, grab what you can while the grabbing's good.
We misread all the maps and we misunderstood
the pulling of the currents in our poison blood.
                    So we'll split up
                the spoils in the hold.

     Yeah, then we'll send this ****** below.

I'm laughing in the rain,
drinking in the Crow's Nest.
You're inhaling all the smoke
from the flames down on the deck.

You're crying in the wind.
I'm leaping in the drink.
You're tangled in the rigging ain't ya, babe?
This ship's begun to sink.

You're always ******. I'm sick
            of your ****.
So let's raid this leaky schooner,
then we'll scuttle it.

Baby, grab what you can while the grabbing's up.
We ****** up reading stars and the compass now.
Avowed we'd only drift until the tide went out.
But we're lost and favored winds ain't enough.

Buddy, grab what you can while the grabbing's good.
We misread all the maps and we misunderstood
the torrents and the waves in our raging blood.
                    So let's split up
          all the plunder in the hold.

     And then we'll send this ****** below.

There's a crack in the swollen sky today
We're caught
          standing, stuck, underneath it.
Looking bad for the good guys down the home stretch
'cuz that ******* looks to be leaking.

Sad news from front offices
Sales figures are down again.
So bummed to slash your benefits
but what's best for you is none of their business.

With newsprint leaving light ink stains
on tabletops
          and tips of the fingers,
they'll just dust crumbs from sweater vests
and sling their quarters into cold parking meters.

****! Here comes an avalanche!
Stay still. Just snow. We won't flinch.
Pretend that we can stand the stench
of the bodies on another warm Christmas.

Sad news from the offices
Pension plans are expensive
Have to reap your benefits
You should prob'ly look for work on the weekends.

Hope they like their breve drinks
Hope they won't stain fresh-bleached teeth
When the North Pole melts, the stores will sink
and the roofs of malls will stand in for beaches.

There's a crack in your lean wallet today,
It aches,
          it's nothing money can't fix.
Maybe try and reapply after New Year's Day,
'cuz for now the sky is still ******* leaking.

A blanket
A covered stretch of ground to cross in due time
A blank face
A blank slate
An empty head tonight moves across this white space

I've crunched through snow and Summer
                                                          ­    both.
Fused years, found friends and let dead ones go.
This axe to grind has grown dull, I know--
                    and cumbersome
                on ground yet to cover.
As days splice fibers into 12 month rope,
Hang this warm hat on one thing I know:
                      that I've still got
                   ground left to cover.

Slow breathing
breath steaming off into dioxide cold night
It drifts towards
the moonlight,
ghost of a laugh escapes, leaks into the night sky

A half hour
A half-smile stretching through my creasing face now
I laughed when
you sang me
Chantilly Lace as we walked across that cold town

I've weathered snow and rainstorms
                                                     both.
Fused years, found friends and let dead ones go.
This frown of mine has grown dumb and old
                    and cumbersome
                on ground yet to cover.
As days splice fibers into 12 month rope,
hang memories on one thing I know:
                    that I've still got
                 ground left to cover.

               The rivers,
                               like parks and roads,
          stitch places to times to sew us homes.
  These year-long cords stretch between our doors
            across all this ground yet to cover.
              
               Their names are
                            a cascading brine
        "Red," "Big Goose, "Clark Fork," "Assiniboine."
   The years flow homeward, my pride erodes--
              silt layer on ground left to cover.