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.

Road trip out to the coast
it'd been a long while
and I hadn't seen you.
          So why not
plot a course out westward
and get away a couple days.

I was over being over it all
And you were sick of your ****** boyfriend.
So we packed and got in your new car
and spent the next few days in Portland.

Well, life's a ******' drag
when all you've got are
loan debts and frustration
          At least there's
bad jokes and good scenery
and long drives on I-90 West.

     I wanna drive that road with you again
     I wanna drive that road with you again
     I wanna drive that road with you again
          I wanna drive that road with you.

We spent a day beneath a Bridgetown sky,
walked through the city with Jen and Erin,
got drunk on Pabsts for a dollar-fifty each
at the Star Bar, 'cuz we were talkin'

about
how folks are mostly lame
but can be cool if
they get half a chance to.
          About our
stupid, funny habits--
it was the greatest day of my year.

We were over being over it all;
sorta tired of feeling kinda jaded.
Then the sun set over Oregon
and you and me and Jen and Erin.

We hopped on a city bus and you
were kinda drunk and acting pretty crazy.
As my stomach kicked from laughing hard,
I remember I just kept thinking
                                                 that

     I wanna ride this bus with you all night
     I wanna ride this bus with you all night
     I wanna ride this bus with you all night
          I wanna ride this bus with you.

Trafficking in recollections
                                       trading
neon nights for bygone days.
From ceiling lights to humming street signs
sealed records come untied.

Another time far from perfection
                                        close enough
for mapping smiles,
covering miles and chasing laughs
               out of throats
        and into corner booths.
Grabbing coats, it's back out into night,
sleeves shining tables the moment we go,
then arms entwining. Voices warmed,
               we sang together

               "...seemed so brief
                 but it wasn't / Now
          I know I had plenty of time..." (Weakerthans)

When was it we went out walking,
bundled up through Winnipeg?
Easter Break? Or January, drifting,
                      chilled
through wind or meltwash?

Calendars defy me now, though
every night recall the time,
                           the place,
           the lights of Your Great City
           flashing off your coffee eyes
and through the heavy, falling snowflakes
on a Spring or Winter night.

I'm traffic on chilly sidewalks
                                        trading
CO2 for oxygen.
No cars disturb the late night silence,
shallow breaths or slow footsteps.

And, as I walk against the signal,
                                       late October
snow obscures
street signs, dulling laughs from doors
              of the bars
and late night coffee haunts.
Seems so far to my small West Side home.
Heels hitting pavement and face turned to stars,
arms hanging downward, my voice, drowned
               mouths words, half-quiet

               "...dusk comes on
                 and I follow / the exhaust
              from memory up to the end..." (Weakerthans)

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.

Tear it up and turn it grey
for the sanitized miles.
Turn it grey and tear it up
for clean-cut faces' ***** smiles.
That's the uptown style, boy--
                  the predator's call--
so bring your knives and brass knuckles
to the board meeting ball.

I've watched my town follow gridlines

from city parks to parking lots

And I can read the prescription

spray-painted on the Wal-Mart wall

               I'd turn away
                if I could...

TAKE TWO A DAY
TWO A DAY
WITH A BELLY FULL OF MEAT
WHEN ASPHALT COVERS ******* FLESH
AND YOUR DREAMS ARE ALL CONCRETE

TWO A DAY
TAKE TWO A DAY
Then try to get some sleep
where the wires and the tenants wear fatigue.

Turn it up and tear away
all the sanitized grins.
Watch the businessmen play checkers,
watch the crocodiles win.
That's the uptown game, kid--
                  the alpha wolf's goal--
lap the blood off boardroom tables,
let the necktied heads roll.

They used to watch their kids play there.

Trees, voices, playgrounds are all gone.

And you can see the prescription

spelled out above the mini-malls.

              can't run away;
              wish you could...

TAKE TWO A DAY
TWO A DAY
OR A MOUTHFUL ALL THEY CARE.
WHEN LIONS LEAVE THE BALLROOM,
THERE WON'T BE ONE BONE TO SPARE.

TAKE TWO A DAY
TWO A DAY
WITH A BELLY FULL OF MEAT.
AMBITION RIPS THROUGH ****** FLESH
AND BLEEDS DOLLARS FROM CONCRETE.

TWO A DAY
TAKE TWO A DAY
Then try to get some sleep
where tenants and the wiring are fatigued.

An orange Canadian city shines
outside beneath frostbitten sky.
It's almost January, I'm
               locked in with you
in your parents' house and the basement lights
gleam bright off your brown, wine-soaked eyes
          we're singing loud
          all alone in here
          on this frozen 3/4 night.

And outside
     all the voices ring out
     at the turn of an hour,
out of freezer-burned throats
     while they clutch their coats closed.
In here we've
     got each other and your speakers,
crowns of construction paper.

My drunk American smile shows,
we watch 2009 approach.
Your maple flavored laughter rose,
               stars in our eyes.
Hear the tape tear, glue flow, scissor cuts
and our separate fibers folding up;
          these paper hats
          we made together
          fit a flawless size.

A long farewell to sad goodbyes,
to Leaving Day and "cheers" to eyes
as big as mine on the River Walk
and firm footing on thick ice.

And outside
     all the voices ring out
     as the year greets an hour,
out of freezer-burned throats
     while they kiss out in the cold.
In here we'll
     kiss each other by the speakers,
crowns of construction paper.

12:10 a.m. Floor's alive
with our shuffling feet...
Our voices laugh through songs,
we catalog each other's faces
as if we'd only just met...
          I swing through the amber light
          with a stifled
               grin
to cover times like this.

1:10 a.m. Golden Rose.
Watch the sidewalk rise...
to meet my falling feet
as the night swells up around me.
I'm one of 10,000 lights...
          that drag their way towards dawn
          with a coyote
               smile
I cover miles of
               haunted streets.

I've taken time untangling years. I find
that the kindest fill up dents
which the uncouthest leave behind:
               the shapes of
          hard and sharpened edges?
               They're still present.
                But covered for now.

It's 2 a.m. Long stumble home
and my burnt voice sings...
its way through gravel songs
that we've kept in our back pockets.
So long they've kept us all warm...
          Nights like this are golden notes
          in a pyrite
               tune.
Keep me like I keep you.

If you're keeping watch,
then I'll trade you shifts now.
I've been awake for hours. Almost light out.
Sleep is the distant, departed pal who
                                   never comes around.
'Cuz I've got a skull
that's filled up with dead ends,
false starts and last tries and lost friends.
I'll be awake so I guess it's useless
                                    standing guard for me.

Who's standing guard for me?

Ran out of cards to play.
Folded at the table
          this apartment stays small.
The ceiling's falling in
                                              again;
all that I can say is that
           it's alright
   though these nights
       will close tight
'round my neck, it's what I'm expecting these days.


When you change your mind,
you know where to find me:
locked up inside or on dim streets,
out after drinks and sifting through memories
                                   I just can't let go.
The sounds of the night
are drowned out by your voice--
--circles my head like halos of streetlights
outside the liquor store on the corner
                                    where they know my name.

Just don't forget my name.

Game's up, my hand is laid.
Folded at the table
          this neighborhood stays small.
Sidewalks' destinations
                                              are the
same. All I can say is that:
           it's alright
    though these nights
        will close tight
'round my neck, it's all I know anyway.

My tired heart revives
when Fall arrives
and Summer dies.
Yeah, it comes back to life
at least part-way, sometimes.
               So paint me
               red and gold
       and washed-out green
                  in sunset.

The year seeks sleep
                              I'm piling leaves.
A breeze on evening,
                              Autumn flesh.
October's weary, ragged breaths
time out these restless, rustling footsteps.

               I can smell the solemn things
               the dying year would say to me
               if it could force its sibilant wind
                                into shape--
--if it could speak in consonance
to my own alliterative silence
and I could keep beats
               as stresses released:
"Where were we          when water froze
for the first time          in the fast waning warm?"

I seek out the sanguine;
                              I've been too combustible.
                              But I'm finally comfortable
with speaking dead language
with tongue all languid.
                               Let languish
cloying heat and raise bumps
               on the skin of my arm
                       like you did
                   when I was four,
playing alone in the rain in the Langleys' yard.

Held up under heavy arms,
buoyed by cool Autumn breath,
I found a way to quiet alarms in my
                              chest
           when I was 27...

Nothing's ever real red gold
except for in the Fall.
So guild me slow and let me go
               if all you've got
               are Summer arms.

It's 2 o'clock in the morning now.
I'm on a late night drive to the Acme pit mines.
With muddy thoughts in a midnight mind,
a mound of gravel in my guts,
I'm churning up
                  The last 4 years
and knocking back a cocktail
                   of wins and losses.
Wyoming night in the early Autumn.
Do you wanna come for a drive?

Take me back to that Winter night
when we walked outside
and filled cold air with our voices.
We set the icy, empty streets to rights,
and just talked all night
until our frozen throats thawed out.

3:10 a.m. It's still warm outside.
The gravel speaks, with each step, under my feet.
Tally up the feet and miles I've gone,
the feet and miles we have lived.
A memory walk
                  is vignette stops:
Those nights we spent drinking wine
                  on your rooftop.
Wyoming night in the heat of Summer.
Do you wanna come for a drive?

Thinking back on that April night
when we stayed inside
and hid from rain in the Springtime.
We let our favorite records spin all night
while it soaked outside
until the red wine sky dried out.

An empty ghost town. 3:45.
Imprints of gravel on my legs are a star map
I'll follow back to the times we had
through mounting years and empty space.
A distant place
                 I'm dredging up.
The one laid down; woven thick
                 in our fibers.
The map is laid out but I know my way.
So do you wanna come for a drive?

Pretty soon I'm gonna wake up
in a ******* Summer heat wave,
sweating bullets down the barrel
of the **** I still can't handle.
                       (Like relation-
                       -ships or regret
                      managment or
                   barely making rent!)
I don't feel any different--
still a stupid, clumsy kid
swing-and-missing, striking out
and ******* breathing out my mouth
as I turn
           and I slouch
and shuffle back to the dugout.

I'M ON A RAFT ON LAKE DeSMET
IT'S GOT A FISH HOOK TEAR IN IT
I'M SINKING FAST
SO WHERE'S MY DAD!?
I ONLY SORTA-KINDA SWIM!
Only now the raft's a loan
for lessons learned that just won't float
and the lake's this ******* town,
my stupid habits and the time
I always waste on whiny frowns,
and hanging hats
               on embarrassing ****!

I'm 29 and I'm thinking
     that Catch-Up's just a game I'm not winning.
Under a pile of mail with a cheap grin,
cringe away and close the blinds
and I'm calling in sick--
yeah I'll call in again
if it'll spare me from the glaring truth.

I'm 29 for a week more.
     For fifty-two I swore not to keep score
with the scars from skinned up knees or my credit.
Lock the door and draw the blinds
and I'll call it a win--
yeah I'll call it a win
if it'll spare me from the glaring truth
                          *of a decade
                   containing my biggest loss.

Hissing hydraulic brakes
your face
          was hiding.
April wind was howling.
Empty streets at 6 a.m.
A song of dust in squinting eyes.
You hunched your shoulders,
pulled your hood back,
smiled sunrise. Bus doors closed.

We'd always leak away
and trace these city limit lines
'til the night bled into day.
Bend footsteps back t'ward sunburnt lines
          that cross the map
          of the town we lived in
for all these sun-seared years.
Sat South of love and East of friendship,
but we feared nothin'!
Yeah, we were pirates,
          with smoke mouthed muskets
in hand. With full sails. And bold grins
          inscribed across each face.

And, back here, I still roll
through days
          on waves of
Autumn wind and memory.
Empty streets at 3 a.m.
Walk with our ghosts; still haunt this town.
You took your chances,
and a Greyhound
just past sunset--headed West.

We'd always leak away,
drive out past city limit lines.
And we'd drive until the day-
light bent rays back to eyes' red lines
          that crossed the map
          of the talks we'd lived in
for all those wondering years,
West of white lies and North of silence.
Guess we feared something.
But, now, what was it?
          And, now, where are you?
Out West with full sails and clear eyes
          inside a sunset face?

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.

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.

Maybe it's two years feeling lonely,
or I'm juiced from drinking way too much coffee.
But, when the Springtime shows its Joker's face,
I'm less likely to sneer and turn away

                                                           ­               Than I was this time last year,
                                                           ­     when I had lost all ******* bearing,
                                                        ­            while I was swearing at the stars,
                                                          ­                    aping Oneida's* navigating.

And, now, I'm on the eastern side,
I'm walking slow, it's early morning.
I don't even want a brush,
          to paint a blackout on the sun.
Well, I've had a few false starts,
I've made an art of second guessing.
Finally don't need a crutch
          to clear the days of all their must.

'Cuz I think I'm aware, now...
          that the frost is gonna thaw real fast
          and trickle down
          into the topsoil 'neath my feet.

Well, maybe we should lay off the whiskey,
or maybe it's two years in this city.
But, when the Winter creeps down 'round our heads,
we should welcome her just like a sneering friend.

                                                        ­                      'Cuz the other shoe will fall
                                                          an­d we'll be walking halfway barefoot.
                                                       ­                  Frozen roads'll get gridlocked,
                                                 we'll ***** for months that we can't stand it.

For now, I'm drifting through downtown,
I'm striding fast, it's early evening.
Ask a stranger for the time
          and wonder what's been on your mind.
And I'm always running late
but make an art of playing catch-up.
I'll catch up with you next week,
          we'll kick the pattern off repeat.

'Cuz lately I've been thinking...
          that the frost is gonna thaw real fast
          and trickle down
          into the topsoil 'neath my feet
          and green things up!

From the top of the Terminal,
your size was splayed out,
a grey **** carpet for the Red River Valley.
And The Forks right beneath
                      our weary walkers' feet
was a thick drop setting up in the center
of your ash grey forehead.
Traced a thumb down Taché and St. Mary's
to the peak of your left cheek on Fermor.

Your traffic light glance blinked us
                    right to a stop
as blue bomb thoughts and temperatures dropped
at the base of our minds
and your wide, widow's peak sky
formed a cold iron bruise 40 minutes past 5.

I've held your muddy diamond eyes
in mine, how many times?
And you'd sigh, sometimes
         from your North End scar,
but the Assiniboine bends around Wellington Crescent,
a stifled, spiced laugh from the failed rebellion
of your Province's youth.
          And you know I'm no novice
to the uncouth barbs of the Winter,
'cuz you wrapped asphalt arms
                                       nice and tight
'round our shoulders.

Osborne & Morley for an A-frame embrace.
The face of a city, its wrinkles a sketch
of laugh line drives for donuts and coffee.
Crows' feet stretched through The Exchange.

We followed your grin
                from
corner to corner,
from Richardson Airport
to Transcona Yards; one earring a lifeline,
the other, steel bones.
From your St. Norbert chin,
to your twin St. Paul crown,
we would wander,
kiss your River East temple
                  then call it a night.

I have names for every smile you gave me:
Vi-Ann in the Village,
The Toad in the Hole,
St. Boniface Cathedral, that first time
in deep snow.
                 I want you to know,
               you frozen Great City,
your terrible beauty is written on me.

Each side-slanted grin I shared with your sidewalks
               encircles my history now,
                          even still.
Fill an eye with 5 years
                of joyous, drunk laughter
which seeds your purple sand sky with fog ghosts.

Still-frame your patchwork, frostbitten face--
the Perimeter Highway's a jaunt-angled toque;
                                           keeps you warm--
I still wear you
           when late Autumn light takes me back.

Checkered choices rise some nights,
play chess with all my frightful failings.
Queen's Pawn to Rook 5.
          Nail my footsteps
          to the concrete season.
          I'm losing pieces it seems.

I'm a sardonic grinner
     and under these eyebrows, it's nuclear winter.
Wending my way through the last
three years, I find no release valve.
The pressure will build and place
its long arm along my shoulder,
pull me far from my friends.
One.
                                         Two.
One.
                                         Two.
                   Step
                 by step
      by hammer blow step
a story is crafted, installed with a lock
          in a circular book.

Queen's Pawn to Ryman Street
                  1:45 a.m.
simmering skin over ice armored innards,
the freezing rain sends up my curses
                                               like steam
                                  clouding off of my shoulders
and into the skyline.

I've castled my way out of checkmate questions.
Not my move to make,
                     so I won't life a finger.
Queen's Pawn to front doorstep,
          then straight on to bed.

About a million prairie miles
roll out slow from sparkling eyes.
Each night, beneath a blanket
of melting white noise
that distance wraps around your
toes and takes its sweet time
          with every
          aching inch.

If I could sell you a story
from pursed lips a half-inch
beneath my reddened, runny nose
who knows if you'd believe it?
But I might get rich if you
were buying
          my slurring, supine words.

I could buy you.
               A new coat.
               With your coin.
And I'd borrow it for the winter.
'Cuz mine's all full of holes
that breathe too hard.
          Like me,
on my long walks home
through streetlights and snow.
          Like you,
in your bed tonight
carving words in your wall,
in the dark, with tongue tucked
tight behind your crooked,
perfect, lovely teeth.

A coat's no good in Summer
(save to improvise a pillow
when I sleep on friends' floors).
But you can sell me back my story,
                                   (half-cost, I'd hope...).
And--just maybe--I could swallow
your million prairie miles,
and stomach five more months
of Sundays...
               To read your wall.
                       Aloud.

City limit space expands,
it's threaded through with veins--
grey-black dendritic strands
                                     span
                        across this moldy brain
of a city.
Our rotting nights spray hits around
           the places players play.
The impulses will whitewash all complaints
'til the glaring day.

I wanna spit-shine every storm drain,
stain the cracked sidewalks in white,
take this town to Sunday morning Mass,
though she was born for Friday nights.

We're gonna trickle past addresses
                                                   now,
Electroshock through habit streets
these crosswalks sneer with snide expression.
Mildewed thoughts we'll hardly think.
A conversation you're repressing
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow
Another weekend's blurred out
blank confession
melts off the tips of tongues,
          I can taste it now.

Circulation space expands,
we're threaded through with veins--
this bio-asphalt plan
                           spans
              all through this molded frame
of a body.
But rotten thoughts, like ships aground,
                   teach sailors how to pray
when impulses have buried all complaints
'neath the foaming spray.

I wanna shade out every bruise now,
paint the dumpsters all in gold.
Missoula, listen: You're a lady.
I don't give a **** what you've been told.

A moldy brain dreams slattern makeup
for a prizefight town each night
so let's take up every artist's brush,
paint shadows on these barroom eyes.

We're gonna flow right through these boule-
                                                          ­          vards.
Electroshock through habit streets.
These dim lit yards and spoiled thoughts
are hyphens placed between each week.
A conversation you're repressing,
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow.
Our city's made-up face is running
off the tips of winter and I taste it now.

"I once thought I had mono for an entire year. It turned out I was just really bored."--Wayne Campbell, *Wayne's World

Pass this
        night un-
*******
                                            wingnuts­.
Opened
        casing
showing
                                 ­            my guts.

Fragmented seconds ticking, slipping
through the widening span
                                     of these small hands.
I've unlocked                         my innards
and the truth is out: it's mostly rusting gears.
I've wound down.                 I've ground up
days and weeks, upended months,
spilled crumbs
                         of my years
on pages, aging fast.
The faces show it's late,
                                        so late.

Time's up.
          Trickling
out of
                                        habits
Gutter
        ­   nights are
washing
                                         ashes
Into
                 Yawning
                                              Faces
fille­d up
                  with questions
                                              falling
f­rom the corners of
their weary, sunburnt eyes.

I'll tick off one more weekend, crossing
panels off a page.
                               Discard a month.
They've opened                    the archives
and the story's old, the golden paper cracks.
The faces,                               blank pages,
rifle past through volumes' deaf--
--'ning greys.
                        Intentions
forgotten, filtered through
the seasons' blurring hum.

                                              It's so late.

An animal shriek
in the snowiest silence
is swallowed by eyes deep and brown,
                        not like mine.
Which're shallow and icy and
                                clouded with Sundays
                                shrugged off of shoulders
from peak down to plain.

These mornings are silent,
constructed from cinder blocks;
skeletal, rusting--yet inwardly
                                     wailing.
Why in the world can't I set those shouts free
when the achiest Mondays release
all their caltrops
               and I stagger through work weeks
on sore, shredded feet?

It's because of the way
      that your shrieks echo off
      of my wrought iron eyelids
      when frost fills your veins.

It's because of the way
      that I melt every Thursday
      and wash down the side
      of the night in cold sheets.

I can't shout out loud
and I can't melt the quiet
that screams from the mountains
to snow on the prairie below.

I know this foreign method
     made my throbbing veins its home
'cuz the familiar's not familiar
     and I'm not fine
          lest I'm messed up on
wine.
     And 9/10 of all the times
I've tried to crack a smile
since I lost you have
turned out as half-assed lies.

I wander streets, worn out,
while I wonder where you are
and what you're thinking about while
     you drive down Henderson...
          I'll try to dry out
          from time to time
        but fall back into bouts
       internal I'm interred in
       eternally--and I'll never win them.
       I'll. Never. Win them.

Not without...

          Sorry...

I meander through months while
     you walk through my mind

--and I'm glad if you're happy?--

     but you were quite angry
    with me that night I took
     and torched our collection
     of 5 years' shared memories
          QUITE ANGRY
             with me.
    And the things you said were mean
          but you meant them.

And you were right
About how wrong I was
how bad I am,
and how I taste
like lemon lies
on the tongue.

     You were right.
     And I'm drunk.

And sad and sorry and selfish
and stupid and absorbed by a
salted skyline of cold, purple steel
          every night.

It *****.

You teach kids for a living,
about the age of 9.
Me? I try to dry out
now and then, time to time,
but it's hard.

And you're far.

And I'd still come if I could,
     but it's hard
     following this heart
     when it's buried
     at the confluence
     of the Red and Assiniboine
          Rivers.

Beneath The Forks...

And that heart? Like the ground above it,
     it's covered
with ******, commercial architecture
and the clothing of bureaucracy,
     but ****,
      we had fun there.

Didn't we...?

The sleet is drawing boxes 'round
our mud-and-snow sashed towns.
We'll check 'em off
                      with crunching footsteps,
slash our gallows grins through static
weather. Nervous laughter fights off winter
while somnambulist nights
                    hold the anthill days at bay.

And each repeated conversation
coats a thrumming undercurrent
echoed by the groaning rivers
in their arthritic fatigue.

     where the ice piles up
              like car wrecks.

And, out of those disastrous angles,
     jumps up and trips back down.
          Blinking eyelids, right then left.
               Sunrises. Sunsets.
Dusks and dawns in places familiar
wading through liminal space.

Circles darkened. Footprints filled in.

The heat just circles lazily.
Our flushed and clammy brows
will **** askance
               and sweat while footsteps
melt our swaying way through boiling
sidewalks. Nervous laughter dulls the impact
of seared, rapid fire nights.
             "Ha." "Ha." Shrug off another.

And all repeated reminiscence
does is hamstring overthinking
of the closing jaws of traps
in these rusting western towns.

        where winds breathe dust
                by mouthfuls

So, into our familiar mishaps,
     ***** up and falls back down
          melting into neighborhoods
               dress down, upbraid us.
'Til our feet do not walk circles
'round these wilting Western towns.

Head start on a frozen night
we'll trickle slow down blighted
                                  street ways
and mix our crunching footsteps
with our ever-rougher laughs.

Grab a drink
too tired for sleeping.
Work weeks pile up, getting deep and
I don't think apartment walls
can contain us one more night.

So save a drink for me,
and meet me out on Longstaff Street

I've got all night and an axe to grind
You've got a case of cold friends
                                 and a troubled mind
so let's pace
                    this neighborhood.
Pull up my roots, we'll untangle yours
from Knowles Street, right on Marshall
                            walk and drink for hours
'til we sink
                  that slant street moon

Transplants grafted to this town
we'll spread roots in these downer
                                      regrets
and spill our gravel laughter
on the sidewalks with these beers.

South, back home,
a handful got it:
rotten nights pave paths to coffins
I don't know how many steps
it'll take to cool our heels.

So grab a drink for me
and we'll go walking Longstaff Street

We've got these drinks, we can disappear
into a slant street night
                      where no one'll hear
how ****** up
                       these days become.
I still think back on Emerson Park
that Summer night we fled from
                   the cops through the dark
when the Russell
                     Street traffic hums...

Wake up to a pulsing morning.
Sooner than you know,
circles back to ******* Monday.
               Empty batteries.
               Empty call log.
               Empty stomach,
and ash-mouthed, empty-hearted anger
leaves its streaks on the walls
of the insides of the skull--
               it's a kitchen, that mind you got:
it's covered and crusted--well used I suppose--
but smells funny, needs dusted
               and swept
               and mopped
               and wiped down
               and shined up. Dress down
the absentees in your life--I'm sure you know how--
'til it circles back 'round--
               to breakfast,
               to Monday,
               to you.
             In your bed.
Fight the throb in your head and push back
on the sheets that still rush up to claim you--
slack jawed with maimed thoughts--though it's
late in the day.

9:13 p.m. on Wednesday
sitting, bolted to this bar,
next to tired tropes and worn out jokes
I've met a million times or more.
And the drinks all swirl together
and they start to taste the same
               going down
               or coming up.
          It really doesn't matter much.

If the streets looked any different,
they'd still bear familiar names:
trees and states and Presidents--
Left turn, snowfall, sitting fences,
               walking home
and getting old. These towns all
look alike, with weeks spent walking
                in the cold.

And the salt on the sidewalks
might season your footsteps--
                                       sure--
a steady, frigid cadence
carried through like a threat:
shallow and petty, from downtown to home.
Alone on the sidewalk,
               it's 7 below.
And I don't know
               what that is in Celsius,
but I know there's no home
              
               for at least
               another block or 2.

I came clean in muddy puddles,
***** slush and snowbound streets,
     in towns that looked alike.
Tonight, I'm headed for clean sheets.
So close the doors, unbolt the patrons
          Thursday morning, 2 a.m.
And it never feels like half an answer
when I push my front door
                                                shut again.

Out across the distance,
they'll be knotting up loose ends
and taking names from strangers
like suggestions, fading into
                               sunrise friendships

Waiting room.
A dreary day.
Silence couched
                      in thumb-smeared detail

What they found
was fresh enough
to stop the gap
                       between smudged-out Fridays

To remove their ceilings.
To rip off old, dead scabs.

Listen, now, I'm not angry,
I only need some air.
I've bloodied hands against these walls
and I'm done doing all of my dying here
                        So pick me up at 9.
                        Let me leak into the night
                        and help me saw through my tethering lines.

Here in this apartment,
sit and simmer in the dark
and bevel out the edges
of a batch of nights 'til this one's
                                        dulled out, hand-safe.

Waiting room.
An Autumn night
swiftly rose
           beyond these four walls.

All I've got
are window panes
to lean my arms
             and glance out at rainfall.

As it falls asleep and
snow flakes drop like old scabs

Listen, pal, I'm just hungry;
d'ya wanna grab a beer?
I've made fast friends with these four walls
but I'm done doing all of my dying here
                          Let me out into the night,
                          where the weather can't decide--
--between cold rain
                                                            ­               and lazy, half-assed snow.

This wind keeps snapping at our feet
through shoes unravelling.
Gales are hungry.
          Night's abandoned,
               streets have emptied.
Still, we own them--just keep talking.
           Winter's wailing.
           **** the old days.
Clutching coats closed,
                         tread nostalgia
past these sidewalk intersections.
Claimed by rambling conversations,
               often
               we're only
               rehashing
our worst mistakes
                                  and
                 shivering
                our way be-
             -neath stoplights
lit by good memories.

          I've got this notion tonight
          that we'll find our way
                                                  back
         ­ into the warmth found behind
          our locked front doorways.
Ways we've found to always hide
our faces from the cold outside
          have been running dry all night.
So drink down the cold street light
          and we'll make a blur of those green-white street signs.

This cold's still clawing at your face
through scarf unraveling.
Chapped lips smiling.
          Nights like this have
               kept on piling.
Winter owns us. Just keep walking.
           Winter's crying,
           "**** the old days!"
Frostbit footsteps
           slip nostalgia
past these frowning checkpoint questions.
Retouch same old observations.
                Sometimes
                we're only
                 retracing
the same missteps
                                but
                    ­frigid
             friends like us
                are melting
into old habits

          I've got this notion tonight
          that we'll take this route
                                                     for
          one more familiar cold flight
          from here to daybreak.
Say, "let fly those bomb bay doors!"
We've bombed these frozen streets before,
                    and I've got a couple more
          so keep moving 'til we find our front doors.

November rolled down I-90
into this town
with the year's first snow and wind
                             I closed my mouth
into a fading highway line:
straight, short, horizontal
as the grey stains shade its white.

It's Wednesday night
          and the tunes inside my car
underline a quiet month
          strained through these bars

"What's the score?" say apartment walls
empty seats tied with unreturned phone calls
It stood that way last I took the tally
on shivering walks' shortcuts through alleys

                                  This is just another rut
                                  walked into these roads
                                  where my unabashed feet
                                  and my aching toes
can save my face some embarrassment
when the bent skies straighten out this cracking pavement

Just a little while later,
look back to the Sun,
gonna warm my face in the Winter dawn
and shake off these somber streetsalt thoughts
                                    caught
my friends on the rebound,
we'll remember now
                                    caught
my friends on the rebound,
we'll remember now

                                          I'll be fine again
                                          come February.
                                          Line my stupid fears up,
                                          shade their eyes.

Poetry takes time and imagination
              apparently, I don't have those.

I'll grab the year by its ******* nostrils
drag it through a mirth-soaked Autumn.
I smell another couch-bound month,
          so I'm churching up November nights
          with chips on sour luck

"Who're you to judge?"
Well, I'm the ****** with the gavel
                                          in my hand
and a burning, short fuse in each eye
And I'm sentencing this lengthy Fall
to muster up some wherewithal;
to keep me off the ******* pile of scraps
                                         'til next Spring.

Make this the Year of the Dog
                                     if you must
but understand I'm not a lamb
or a lion or an ox;
I'm a windy, cloudy Saturday,--
a kid from out Wyoming way--
The only guess I've got is
keeping still means getting lost

I'll grab the year by its ******* collar
shake until it bleeds the future.
Drag it out--I'm gonna drag it out
toss it on the pile of burning years
                                 to light my face.

Keeping still means getting lost.
Burning years'll light my way.

There's a tiny park a short walk from here
where no one ever goes.
Though it's always abandoned,
I like to walk there when it snows
               'cuz it seems like
                     a relative.

Don't complain to me, my friend
if your face is feeling raw;
It gets cold here in Montana,
and December nights get long.
               and they have not
                   failed me yet.

So salt your frigid frown
and lay down bets on warmer times
in five more months, the thaw will come
and we just might quit rolling snake eyes.
Icy air is not your enemy
and neither are this small city
                                              or I.

The same park, it has a baseball field,
leaf-covered, looking old
the dugout's still in good repair,
but the basepaths overgrown
               remind me of,
           A New Year's alone

Remember one warm night when we thought
we were in the mood
to walk to the convenience store
for some box wine and some food?
               we played cards,
             locked in my room...

Now we're crying California tears
from laughing all night long.
And you don't really hate Montana,
you're just doing Winter wrong.

So lay your anger down
and hedge your bets 'til nicer days
don't stay inside, 'cuz you don't have to.
Graft my smile over your grimace,
this dull white-out's not the end for us
and neither is the bitter cold
                                                   outside.

13 years, so many jobs
so many names you half forgot
got caught and collected
                    at the corner of your mouth.

Outside, it's one more night,
one more stitch in this rag doll year
and you can still hear the way she'd
                    try to talk while laughing
any given Sunday night.

Might be you half forgot.
Might be the roaring years
drowned out the hum of their names
in your ears
              earned your stripes, now wear 'em well
spell out your name in snow, then
go lay down in the bed you made.

Outside, it's lights and noise
and visible breath
footbeats on sidewalks,
forgotten names with smokers' coughs
all caught in the roaring tides of
                                                the time.
But it's blood clots inside;
a parenthesized appositive
                      redefining what you lost.

In the clot, one sunk to the silt,
                  to the dregs.
In here, your living room
               is outside the parenthesis,
closed out of the open air.
Spare change beneath the lamp
strangely mocking outside lights,
                 glinting bright,
                    but silent.
                       Inert.

And, just outside,
          those city lights
they flash for others;
those with jobs and funds,
          with lovers,
with smiles still left
                         in the tank.
Not fake ones constructed
by nights getting ****** up
or upended frowns painting
clown faces all pasty--
                 you'll get out.

                You'll make it back;
              black clouds blow past
       and the tide runs out fast. And--
                           lastly?--
    You're made of better stuff than that.