The nuts
and the bolts
of your automatic habits
programmed scowls and slowing reflexes
               keep you
     matching wits with no one
               every night.
             And you keep
slipping
     back into your 6-month rut
     with your cold sneer,
      hands in pockets,
      your shrinking bank account
           and swelling gut...

The Mountain Lines meander,
you're just killing time and brain cells.
Ashy days are tasting bland.
Bus routes circle back on themselves
          like your footsteps every ******* night,
          this town will raise its hand,
          you'll retreat into familiar flight.

                                                      Cr­inge
                                       'cuz it's so easy.
                                                       Cringe
                     at what you have become.
     Come back on your loop repeating.
                                 Potential's mocked.
       You're numb and deaf and dumb.

And you've never surrendered.
But that's not the same as winning.
Pinning hopes on snapping out
of it and sleeping hearts on sleeves.
          Heavy footsteps every ******* night,
          a walking metronome
          passing cross-streets just to pass the time.

Your dull,
aching eyes
that you peer through every sunset--
programmed scowls squinting through preset acts--
               keep your
       dulling wits all silent
              every night.
           And you'll keep
walking through days like turnstile gates
and send each night on down the line.

Send each night on down the line.

The date is printed orange
in the bottom right hand corner
of my very favorite picture.
     It's from two-thousand and eight

And, as my cramping legs keep ambling
every gavel foot falls faster than
the one that fell before.
     I'm wondering
where the Hell the years have gone.

You were all brown eyes and wide white smiles.
I was all youthful bravado.
As your laughter swelled to confidence,
I was sinking straight down to the bottom.

And the water rolled on past us,
          Goose Creek
swelled with the Summer run-off...
Tell me where did all this time run off to?

The moon is looming large
in the hazing, ashed-out corner
of my wine-enchanted eyeball
     on this too-typical night.

And every hyphen lends some extra space
to staggered breaths as I recall your face.
Now I'm spelling out
     my own verdict:
defendant's moving to convict.

I don't know the final cost.
     But I got enough memories
to say what future I still have,
     well it sure ain't coming free.

I got enough memories now
     that I don't know where I will be
when a year is just a yawn and a sigh,
     and you're still lodged
     deep down inside of me.

You were brown eyes' living confidence,
I was yellow, fading cowardice.
I know you were the better one,
and I've always been scraping the bottom.

And the water stalled beside us,
          Red Riv-
-er choked with Winter ice blocks.
Don't know why I was so dumb and frozen.

But thanks
     for believing
          all those years.

On Ohio nights, you've got fireflies.
     Out West, we like our rifles.
Never pull your days out from the roots
     'til the nights have all been ripened.

City lights are purpling blackened streets
and we can see our way to habits through
          these neighborhoods...

Our sentences are carbines.
Order up a few more rounds.
I guess it's almost automatic
when the late reports all sound
          like we've got
          rain all week.
        It's rain all week.
And you're so sick of parades.

You say you want a Summer.
One that never ends.
One that takes you back to Ashland,
          brings you
sense of time and feelings for old friends.

I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket,
          bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.

          I'll see you in the Fall.

On Ohio nights, you've got fireflies.
     Out here, we've got some mountains?
Never load your words into your clip
     'til the shells have all been counted.
City lights rain gold on midnight streets
and we can feel our way familiar through
          these neighborhoods.

Our paragraphs are Kevlar.
Knocking down another round.
When the night sky tries to swallow
you, the late reports all sound
          like we've got
          rain all week.
       It's rain all week.
I was so tired of parades.

I'm looking towards the Winter.
Know how that one ends.
It'll take me back to Sheridan,
          bring
sense of time and memories of old friends.

I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket
          bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.

       I'll see you in the Fall.

They should still be singing stories, babe
about the fun we had.
Yeah, from the top of The Leg'--
throw an arm around your Golden Boy
dance them feet across the copper.
If those songs could take us back, I swear that I
               would live out my days
               inside of those strains
               I'd keep my word this time.
                              and I
would arc across that place with you--
off The Leg' through Osborne Village,
through boutiques and record stores and maybe they
  would hear us laughing at The Toad in the Hole.
Or we'd speed north, past Kildonan Park
'til they could hear us out in Lockport.
Hear us shout at Dubuc & Des Meurons
               while they're waiting on their bus
     to cut the frosty dusk with condensed exhaust
               we could laugh right in their face.
                      I'd live inside those strains.

If they were singing about us from the top of The Leg'
we'd stream across St. Boniface Cathedral
and some young someones
running through hip deep snow in the cold
would pause and hear us.
We'd stir their soupy breath in the night,
sifting through our history.

If they forgot the words, it wouldn't matter.
Our verses: soft breathing, our choruses: laughter.
the sound of us moving through Exchange District taverns.

I want for them to start singing us songs
and I want a pint with you at The Yellow Dog.
No more 4 years of regrets and no more sad talk.
Just you and just me and maybe a walk through the city.

Bills are scheming with a lightweight check
               again.
Swear to God they must by
         best of friends.
And now I'm sitting solo on my couch
               again
with these 4 walls.
They've become parenthetic.

It's the same everywhere,
               I know.
Same for my friends.
'Cuz the loan checks that we're writing won't
          pay dividends.
We majored in Assumptions,
tossed our caps and
               then
we found new meanings
for what's copasetic.

Now it's easy...
too **** easy...
So easy...
It's too easy.

To wander these same neighborhoods
and stay in tiny, ****** apartments
when the loose ends of your 20s tangle
and you're tied to where you've always been.

And I'll never ask for
          FOR ANYONE'S HELP.
But I still can't take
          CARE OF MYSELF.
So I'll
          COOK MY DINNERS
     ON THESE BURNING BILLS
and laugh my way to the bank
so they can repossess my smile.

Days keep blurring through to nightlight gleams,
               I know
time is racing past but
      thoughts are slowed.
And I'll be sitting pretty on my couch
               alone
inside 4 walls
because habits are a home.

It's the same everywhere,
               I know.
Same for us all.
Late nights and lame jokes we're making
          push back walls.
We majored in Assumptions,
tossed our caps and
               all
we found were new ways
to be pathetic.

But it's easy...
just too easy...
So easy...
It's too easy.

To stay in soured relationships,
stay still in tiny, ****** apartments
when the low points of your paychecks dangle
while you're trying to climb as high as rent.

And we couldn't be in
          ANY WORSE HEALTH.
And we couldn't be less
          FAIR TO OURSELVES
but we'll keep on keeping
like it's copasetic

And we'll never ask for
          ANYONE'S HELP.
Though we still can't take
          CARE OF OURSELVES.
So we'll
          COOK PLATES OF CROW
          ON OUR BURNING BILLS
and laugh our way downtown
where we can reassess our smiles.

You keep shaking at the branches
just like money grows on trees.
I been dealing in these cheap clichés
just like they'll help me leave someday.
And--easy! Easy! Easy.--
We can't let 'em hear us scheming
at the bottom of their hill
while their victories are streaming.

I can still remember days
when sane folks always laid bets on us.
With our mortarboards tilted all smart
and God left sorting filters,
we tilted, tipped all windmills
and we smoked through all opponents.

You'll tell me I once loved you.
I'll reply that, once, I could.
And we'll keep on telling stories
'til our voices clear the woods
and drift on up their hill
and through their windows
to their ears.

I'll tell you you were beautiful.
You were! I ******* swear!
So tell me I was beautiful
and that we can repair
this broken clumsy story
that ****** us all up and brought us here.

Up there atop their hill,
those thieving ******* sip their wine,
while below them, our white facepaint runs.
We plan ahead for better times.

I keep shaking at the branches
as if friendship grows on trees.
Just as though they might accept me,
when the dollars fall with Autumn leaves.
And you been dealing hard in hollow hopes
and flimsy dreams.

But I still think you're beautiful.
So tell me that I'm beautiful.
And then let's clip their flimsy wings.

Those ******* 'crost the town
are eating **** and grinning.
               Cackling,
               orgasming,
while counting out their winnings.

But their music plays too loud
and soon their eardrums will be bleeding.
If they can't hear us breathing, babe,
they'll never hear us scheming.

Goodnight, pretty cannibal!
It's been fun, I guess.
Beats being alone.
It's gotten late and I suppose
     I'll talk to you in the morning.

I mashed up every sad complaint,
playback on loop;
a bad mixtape.
You fell for it, but can't complain
     'cuz we've settled on each other.

Throw me out a lifeline,
               find
a bracket--you could tie it off.
And, maybe once in my dumb life,
I can pull myself to the shore.

I keep pinning all my hopes
on losing
bets
but I won't bother
giving you the benefit
when I doubt my own luck.

I have wasted time on wasted lies
but you don't care.
And we've not wasted tonight
               so let's just say...

You'll talk to me in the morning.

We're two pretty cannibals.
We had our fill
then spit out bones.
The day is here and now I know
     you probably should be leaving.

We played through every easy stage.
Continues gone,
so that's the game.
You're over it; I won't complain
     'cuz we knew that this would happen.

But throw me out a lifeline,
               find
a bracket--you could tie it off.
And, maybe once in my dumb life,
I can pull myself to the shore...

You keep rolling up snake eyes
on losers,
jerks
and creeps like me.
But still you saw some benefit--
thought why not try our luck?

I am wasted time, you're wasting minutes,
but who cares?
And we didn't waste tonight
               so let's just say...

I'll talk to you in the morning...

When I know you should be leaving...