Your feet got tangled
in your own **** name
                             Layed
nights out end-to-end,
now you're the oldest one here drinking
in this dingy, shaking basement
                   by at least "a couple years or so,"
so shrink from searching eyes.
Strike up that ****** band again--
                  your teeth have grown tall enough
                          to ditch this ride

                          Outside,
              some drunken crusty's
             trying hard to pick a fight
      and shadowed necking in the corners
           punctuates the "Got a light?"s
                  like drowsy eyes and
             yawning sighs parenthesize
the way you check your phone a thousand times

                                       "Hey, don't you work tomorrow?"
                                        Yes, I ******* work tomorrow and...

Though all these fresh-lit fuses
                                          sizzle--
--starli­ght studs in leather night--
the morning leaves you spark-singed
               paper, sulfur lungs
                 and sagging eyes

The stairway's ******* crowded
with a thousand younger yous,
feet creak the upstairs floorboards
cue the crooked smiles in familiar hues

               But pigs have pens
               and feet have boots.
               Old hats need heads
     and birds, they need their roosts

So let the lines fill in
on this fermenting face
and lay this craggy grin
          into its worn-in place
          beneath these creaking stairs
          and let this basement shake.

Check off
     all these belongings from a list
that I wrote in thick blue marker
on a cardboard strip I ripped
    
                    There's a book I lost at 26
                    with dog-eared pages fading gold
                    16 pens, 45 cents
                    a dented tin of birthday cards
                    unnumbered rolls of mints

Sit back
     on the carpet in the heat
take another sip and press on
to the bottom. To the green.

                    There's a look you had at 28
                    with bow shaped mouth and arching eyes
                    15 hours, many road trips
                    your crooked tooth would slant your grin
                    Never saw me fall right in.

                    And today I pace apartment floors
                    or sit amidst a box flap hall
                    halted breath, an iron hour
                    clad in sweat, still packed away
                    in taped up, cardboard yesterday

                    There's a photograph, from 2010
                    atop the slippers that you gave.
                    Raging smiles, orange lights at night.
                    The River Walk in wintertime.
                    And it's my favourite pic.

But the 21st was moving day
and all I've got are pickled dreams,
an empty house and waiting boxes,
"Tear my guts out," so they say.

                    No fight quite like a duct taped box.
                    No companion like your face.
                    No shrink quite like an empty bottle.
                    No wake-up call like moving day.

Wake up laughing
cackle into the kitchen
9:15 a.m. on Sunday
cop-outs couched in cups of coffee
          Sofa King Redundant
Lock the door but no one's coming
          I'm the LORD OF ALL I SURVEY!

Survey says the pilot's out
sink is full and
blinds are drawn.
It smells like sweat and silence
and a mostly empty fridge.

"Everything the light touches is yours!"
Outstanding power bill
          bank statements
               unreconciled
unwashed clothes
and unsent thank-you notes.
Shrink-wrapped books on how to cope.

Maybe I'll ask for a raise...

I know the contours of your face
just like the streets of my hometown
          you'd squint your eyes
                 when laughing
     at the corner of Main and Dow.

Blacktooth Brewery
               on frigid Friday nights
frosted glasses, fogging breaths
and laughs caught up
               in tightening chests.
Kendrick Park can keep its towering trees
                                   and midnight charms
if I can keep your laughter with me
                       when I sail for newer shores

Something in familiar signs,
          buzzing blackened Bighorn skies,
keeps us just above the water line--
          afloat for one more night.

Sheridan Iron Works
Red, rigid lettering a raised, distant hand
Watch it wave from on the hill
above the Kendrick boardwalk,
soak December in our smiles
choking back our April cries.

Snake's head yawning
          from the I-90 exit
slithers down Coffeen and tails
          our icy footsteps
     Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.
Shake this town to its bones
with our Thurmond Street jokes
and our glowing Gould Street hearts.
I hope
          this is enough
          to buoy our ***** up
          against the weighty ballast
          of this tiny, yawning town.

Settlers of Catan
played on a windy Wednesday night
over another drowning round
of clinking Wagon Box pints.

The contours of your face,
icy streets of our hometown,
our squinting, gasping laughter
on the corner of Main and Dow.

Blacktooth Brewery.
               Frigid Friday nights.
Fogged up glasses. Frosting breaths
and laughing, clutching tightening chests.
               This freezing town
               will test your mettle.
               Settle up and bring your friends.

Late night. Footsteps.
Crane necks and girders.
Fog lifts. The wind cries.
Steel bones in moonlight

                        I'm out
                      so late now
and it's Sunday night and Summer's ending
                         soon.
I'm aging
                                          with questions
fermenting in my mouth
ignored for years

Fenced off. Unfinished
project shelved and waiting
                     for next Spring.

Cool night eclipsing
years spent indexing,
answers mislaid and
blueprints unrolling

Components rusting,
crane necks and girders.
Steel bones in moonlight.
Tight lipped and staring.

                             Fall comes
                             construction
halts now and the walls stand half
                            complete
And outside
                                     the chain link
shrugging off the cold and
still wondering when

Step through unfinished
building. Get home. Shelved
                      until next Spring.

She's all Spring and Summer
                Strength
         and words of shelter
He's all maps and formlines
                    waits
        in wings for Springtime

Take these tattered ghosts
                    from their trenches
ink-smeared, tethered tight
                      to the depth curve
Autumn only waits for the silent
                       ones sometimes.

"If their voices chase
                   out the brisk months,
quiet those windy wights
                     with a new song.
Autumn only waits for the silent
                      ones," she said.

In 3/4 time
the distances unwind
so swiftly
Afterburn of quiet nights
                      glows, fading.

He's all sovereign anger,
               righteous, stiff
                      but twisting
She's all cavalier, now--
               cat-quick through
                   projections

Past the legends,
               rose our directions
Keyed to Winter's
                 dumb introversions
Years just spilling over the levee's
                         prescribed edge.

With their weathered ghosts
                           in the trenches,
tired-eyed, tethered tight
                          to the map's edge
Autumn only cares for the silent
                             ones some days.

With passing days queued up
          for the forecast foreseeable
Tuck into the routines' reserves
          deplete when permissible

Shot through the feet
          with what we can't forget
run on through the limp
          past the end of the sentence
                                             and sit
                         In the glow
                  remain undeveloped
                  stay unreconstructed
                  drop the curtain
                 on scenes interrupted

Dot your i's
          with up-slanted slash marks
sparks fill my eyes when
                            I read through your retorts
Blank page.
                                                        Blank page.
A waltz through a minefield
reeling jigs over headstones
          when digging through
           plain white lines

Three days ago
            it was Canada Day
Wait for the winter under Maple Leaf shade.
I'm alight with night time's
            anaesthetized truths
soothe sweaty, shaking aches
            until this
        Independence Day
frees up my lungs.

Three days ago,
         turned 29 years old.
Etched our initials in a park bench, rolled
my smudging thoughts into
         photographed truth.
Our silver, halide smiles
         on paper
        live in drawers,
   tie me to 25.

Our hearts aglow,
we rose
through dreams and aching,
        chafing hopes.

True. Free. Young.

But the bombs burst that bubble
and red eyes glared
           through anger and an aching, sorry chest.

Grey-Green-Red-Brown Dawn
stains right through a.m. sky
                     so the atmosphere
                     looks weird today.
The forecast calls for heat again;
that silent, seething drum that beats
        the blood-drenched dollar sky--
beats out a March of Ages--

beats us copper lumps to shape.

The shelf we Occupy on this drifting
westward continent, constructed from
the flesh that fell from our fathers' hands,
from the bones of distant lands
becomes a dusty storage closet
        for the corpses of our days

Our days--aha.
That's supply and demand, kid.
What's a life but flesh-time?
And what's time if not money?
Nothing!
Nothing is anything
                   but money.
You. Are money.
Like time.
Sleep well tonight. And set your clock.
You gotta work to buy their robots
that **** Mid-Eastern skies
(and Midwestern ones alike)

Sink real slow beneath the surface
of that rising ocean of noise--
growing louder--hot air melting ice caps.
Watch that boiling, acid ocean
roll in on the tide and sink
beneath the waves of noise--
               of monotone voices--
sawdust seasoning on cardboard--
crying, "These colors don't run!"
and, "Stand your ground!"
and for fun, when bored, answer the
                 Call of Duty.
It's that silent, seething drum

beating 'gainst THE TERRORISTS
while we deny the summer heat
as we sweat in SUPERBOWL SUNDAY dreams,
Like it beat against the COMMUNISTS
through all our TOP GUN weekends,
Like it drums up portraits of
              vampire fanged IMMIGRANTS
                                           and ILLEGALS
while we guzzle our BEER
and sweat beneath those acne-scarred skies
on the FOURTH OF JULY.

Sleep well tonight

And set your clock.

Don't wanna be late for work,
to buy their robots that **** Mid-Eastern skies
          (and Midwestern ones alike).

What's that hum outside your window tonight,
whirring, buzzing
                 droning
beneath the blood-drenched dollar sky?

Mid-20 doldrums never really wore off
still slay the summers with smiles
                                            like punches
Still walking wounded through the bad joke lanes,
questions clamped under your tongue,
with an aching brain

Can't believe we thought we'd left a place.
Still rattling 'round inside these tin can
                                                roadways.
Car­rying cards after we fold the game
Poured pretty comforts down our throats--
                      so many candied gas tanks.

And I agree: these couches
                    are feeling more like graves
Will our crutches craft our coffins
'til we bobble routine plays?
Nothing changed before we knew it.
6-year blink, it's all the same.
                                It's just that

Mid-20 doldrums never really wore off.
Still blur the border between wants and needs.
Still **** our thumbs when all the
                                               lights turn off.
Still check our pulses,
then start laughing loud as
                                 knocking knees

Can't believe we thought we'd left a place.
We're still too comfortable with our own kind.
Still fall in love with the same friends
                               for just a few days at a time

And I concur: these routines
                 are looking more like chains
Will these crutches seal our caskets?
Would we notice anyway?
Nothing changed before we knew it
6-year blink, it's still the same.

Mid-20 doldrums never really wore off.
Still chasing sunsets and a 10-cent dream.
Still rattling 'round inside these tin can
                                           roadways
Still placing patches over fraying seams

Still checking pulses, still on quaking knees.
Still too scared to make up our minds
Still turning parties into 3-day headaches
while we pretend like we can take our time

Can't believe we thought we'd left a place
Still slay the summers with smiles
                                            like punches.

Silver ribbon Assiniboine
a sash for a city--a Ceinture Fléchée
tied into the Red just off Highway 1
          You leak into the topsoil
           in the place you call home
          and come back up a street map
          with fingerprint roads

I remember the way you'd trace these out on my back
with fingertip pencils--cartographer's hands--
Bird's Hill and Lag' and Portage and Corydon
     laid 'em down in my veins
     just under my skin

Where are you tonight, in your smiling Great City?
Crossing the bridge and inhaling the skyline?
Or walking the river in my iced over thoughts?
Maybe walking, mid-tempo, around KP mall?

Those hipsters in Osborne Village
          and Wolsely
had nothing on us, did they?
                    Cooler than Main
                              on the 1st of the year

I trickled away
                    and I leaked into topsoil
enjambed between rhymes in apology poems.
An Irish Goodbye; a blip on the radar
stopped flashing to fade off the map of your streets.

Our voices still echo, our spectres still haunt
Dollaramas and sidewalks, Tim Horton's and pubs
Our hands still lace up--at least so in theory
Perimeter Highway's still traced on my back.

          Here's hoping our avenues
          meet again soon.
          Here's hoping that luck can outrun shortcomings
          one more time.

Raise our bottles to the purple night
We'll bend these floorboards
          weighed down with our voices.
Shout the doors wide open
fling the windows up
                              erupt into the
streets we know
          then fade and dissipate--
embers, sparks and cinders,
each and every one of us.
A fireworks display--
a winter's day in negative.

          Let's cross these longneck bottles,
flashing foaming glass Excaliburs,
and pour our frothing voices
'cross these seething summer streets;
                                boiling over, burning out.

The snows are coming soon enough
to spread out half a year between
our memories and this night.
So let'*******our glass Excaliburs
and join our ragged voices to the night
               while records spin.

A shot fired across the deck
a weakened hull. A turning tide.
Well, all our anchors hang on chains
and dangle off our changing minds.

I'm not swimming back to shore,
     not this time.
Claw at water, grabbing sand.
Spent all this time with seaburnt eyelids
squinting back at conquered land.

     Squinting back at conquered land.

I am just a paddling rogue
awash in charges, lost at sea.
My toothless mouth just won't stop smiling
as this makeshift life raft starts to leak.

A swimming rat begins to sink

Fire a shot across the deck.
All this ocean and no drinks.
Fire a shot across the deck.
Fire a shot across the deck.

Do you hate the way
     that our magnetized times
turn us all to metal shavings--
     push and pull--charged each
day to fill up negative space
with negative attraction?
Were you repulsed when polarities
                                          changed?

Or­ was that me?
     Flipping switches
                     switching sides
                                      siding
with pivot points showing, caught
with pants down?
"Be a man now!"
          While the female end
          of the port calls out,
          "Shipwreck! Shipwreck!
               All men down!"

Count me out at minus 4
     it leaves a balance: minus 3
At minus 10, our blood could freeze
and fall back earthward; blood red snow.
Caught on the tongue it tastes like pennies.
          Tastes just like
          the metal shavings
          we become
          in magnetized times.
               Polarized
and "Family Sized." Underpaid
Overfed. Neutralized America.

Greatest country in the ******* world.

                    Right?

Befriended street lamps' static hum
Timed steps slashed through electric buzz
Fled from the dawn's grey stain
chased night with anxious breath
                                              erupting
Out­flanked and pinned down
                                         by the days

Strike up the band, roisin the bows.
Compose another tired piece.
I dread the melody
and cringe away
                              from the next movement
I'm only up for burned out wandering.

     Another balance overdue
Took out a loan for time well spent
     Roll out the carpets for the doomed
It's unforgiving turf where our steps are bent

I'll draw these lines
     of ghostly profile night
and coax the specters out
We'll roll on with the tides
     where we can dance macabre
until the core unwinds.

Defend the fort for sleeping ghosts
I'll man these walls until the dawn.
I'll fight these memories
beneath the banner of
                                  some others
Shell-shocked with gun arm
                                  growing sore

Outside, the sidewalks glow red-orange
I throw my shadow on the sparks.
Charred homes on cindered streets
I draw my bow
                           across shaking half notes
Chart out a map of burnt meanderings.

     Default on friendships I misplaced
I'm wrapped tight in familiar fear.
     But I'll warm to those familiar strains...
Because it's 5 o'clock somewhere, and Summer's here...

I'll cross the lines
     into the ghostly night
and wake the specters up
As fires kiss the night
     so I can sleep real sound
and let my core unwind.

Past
     closed up pizza joints
Past laundromats, through the dying noise
the nights tick on like clockwork
watch the calendar as my steps unwind

I'll wait for my thoughts to ferment
pick my words, hope I don't slur them.
Flip back past the page of these days
     get a read how I got to this age

From the summit where I'm stuck and posted
          reread the books where I come the closest
From the shelf spill my guts to ghosts here,
and relive old nights in Bozeman

          When I found a place
where the nights grew longer--
grew confident that I wasn't always wrong
and just drank the moon
          under dawntide tables
rolled the dice with the greatest friends
we said,                           "We're not old yet."

          Through
     crumbling bones at night
past skeletons of the city's size
the nights fall out like sand grains
curse the hourglass as my fate unwinds.

I'll wait for my brain to discharge
its contents on hospital charts.
Glued the book shut, stuck in the time
I gained my crutches and misplaced my mind.

From the bed that I'm ******* glued to
to cluttered basements I can't wade through
The foundation just won't hold up
against the cracks formed in Missoula.

          Ran off the rails
where I stumbled and stammered
grew comfortable beneath pint glass hammers
I still drink the moon
          under dawntide tables
grown apart from the greatest friends
who said,                      "You're not dead yet."

Our old uncle, Daedalus,
     he'd grin when he spoke to us
His mouth was missing teeth
and so his wisdom flowed out free
He always smelled of cheap cigars
     alleyways and corner bars
He'd tell us he had seen the world
     and this was his decree:

     "Don't fly too high, you little *****.
       You just might live to pay for it.
       The Sun is always hot,
       the ground gets harder every day."

"But, Daedalus," we would complain,
"You are old and we would fain
see the sights you saw before
          we sleep beneath the clay."

And dear old Uncle Daedalus
     he'd laugh and spit and swear at us
"You ******* little ***** had better
heed the tale I tell.
This life is one big ******* maze
with twists and turns and tricks to play.
The kings control the monsters,
who make Earth a living Hell."

We'd try to listen, try to thank
him for the words, but his breath stank
and, anyway, we thought that he
               had prob'ly **** himself

But dear old Uncle Daedalus
hung Death from lips that spoke to us
and ****** if he weren't right
about the things he always said:
"Inventiveness works, by and by
with daring, you may taunt the sky
                                   like I did
                                  but the fall is long--
my dreams and son are dead."

He always smelled of cheap cigars
     alleyways and corner bars
"You ******* little ***** had better
heed the tale I tell..."

"Don't fly too high, you little *****.
You just might live to pay for it.
The kings control the monsters,
who make Earth a living Hell."

Woke up in a dream under asphalt trees
soaked in the sap of the sweltering city
wearing these old rat rags
               and sneering at the concrete
Greyscale mindset stitched into my sleeve

This town'll ******' **** ya
               and drop a coin on your grave
dig your way up to the daylight
and hang on to your *****

                    Waking up
                    Snapping out.
                   It's not so easy, is it?
                  Waking up and snapping out...

The barge is afloat on the sidewalk streams
Burns in the summer, ******* doused in Spring
the bums puke in corners
               children ***** in the alleys
Sinking hulks. "Abandon ship!" on the galleys

These waves'll ******* **** ya
and pull you down in the deep
this dream ain't worth waking for
        But we can't get to sleep.

A day recedes,
     I'll chase down one more night
A lamed and hobbling Spring
     tries to outrun the tide
of all the misspent months
and all this wasted time

          The northern breeze sings cold,
          it sighs through tattered topsails
          sea of questions waits.
          schools of unanswered voicemails

My footfalls share the sidewalks,
                                          steady,
sure­. Still young but glimpsing old and stumbling

Walking outside
soaked lungs need some new air
I'm nervous and shaking
fold the map, don a blank stare
my days wearing on
               fill 'em up with a fool's words
               I'm saltwashed, stuck and
               peeling paint off my memory
               for now.

A day's been seized--
          a metered length of life
Can't place a price on Fall
          and can't outrun the tide
of these layered seasons
as his time unwinds

          The eastern wind comes hard
          and shreds through mended mainsails
          river of answers dried
          so ask the waving cattails.

His footfalls know the sidewalks
                                        leaking
down sidestreets' asphalt tributaries

Walking around
A hitch in his slow gait
A ghost of our town
shuffles on with a fixed gaze,
his days playing out,
               As he strides down the sidewalks
               his life plays a film,
               flashing bright on glazed eyeballs

And I'm southbound,
4 p.m. driving Orange Street
completely drowned--
               --swore I woke up in Gimli,
                Manitoba January
                seared into my youthful memories
I'm freezerburnt
                Autumn heat, don't leave me
I'll hold your hair if you're feeling sickly,
then drive back home.
                Autumn heat, don't leave me now.

                ...Autumn heat, don't leave me now.

Oneida says she's out of time
for mining lies from crooked minds
and spending nights
     beneath strange blankets
street-to-street, tab at a time.

She says she's wasted years
killing hours for days on end
turning bar booths into confidants
     and neon signs to friends
She's held on for so long
     to her town, to trust, to hopes
But when her shaking hands start sweating,
          she starts
     to think of letting go.

Oneida's got the map, a tank of gas
          and miles to drive
But she won't listen to her screaming gut:
     she's played deaf her whole ******* life
She'll be swearing at the stars
while her feet trace the boulevards
and the window lights shine yellow
bathing sidewalks in question marks

     But Oneida knows these streets
          like she knows me

Oneida says she's leaving town
her last dime spent on dollars down
she's hedged her bets
     on 1st and twenty-
fifth at the depot.

She wants to hear new chimes
where new bells ring in brand new climes
turning traitors into confidants;
          acquaintances to friends
She's held tight for so long
     to each hand that dealt her wrong
But when her cards start flushing royal
          she starts
     to think she might not fold.

Oneida's got the will, a tank of gas
          and time to drive
But will she listen to her screaming gut?
          She's played deaf
          her whole ******* life
She'll be cursing at the stars
while her feet trace the boulevards
while the window lights gleam yellow
soaking sidewalks in question marks.

          But Oneida knows these streets
          like she knows me...

Shops close while a storm front
     is moving in
and my eyes adjust to night.
Last fool who's out walking
and I guess I dressed a little light

Late winter flakes streaking
a ***** wash of tracers,
                          grey on grey
Silhouette of five fingers
in streetlights cast as they're grasping
                                    at door frames

Still holding out. Your distance
  reaches out across miles
           it strikes me blind.
Now listen up--I've been whispering,
"One more shot's all I ask;
          my aim's alright."

A laundry list of dead actions
fills up a page, it's sour in your mouth
I've been living scratched off in the margins
Take your time, we've got all Spring to thaw out.

Orange light through bay windows
               is spilling out
in a citrus wash on snow.
Street you live on a memory
913, left turn off Bird's Hill Road

I bet that it's warm there
though the frost covers window
                                       panes outside
And today I remember
the way your laughter thawed out my
                                            frozen sights

Still holding out. Your distance
       reaches out across miles
                  it strikes me blind
Now fessing up to bad reasons
One more turn of the season
                         you'll be fine.

I guess I missed the benediction;
bless your heart, cross my best wishes out.
So let's fill this page with better diction--
Syntax sorted, we'll just talk ourselves down.

From where you're perched,
                you can see the world
Well, so can I from these
              snow-socked streets.
Slide across a frozen sidewalk,
               meet me up for a drink.

I'm epilogue and yellowed,
when you're fresh off the press.
Winters never end, though the
temperatures rise
So buy
                    in,
I'll buckle up.
Shake me down
              to my guts.
Ya know, we struck out looking
                  our last time up
                                       But
the price is right
And
it's no lie:
I ******' love the way you smile
where you tighten your eyes.

I'll take a dive and catch you
when you fall from the sky
if you'll forgive the way I squint
into the Springtime sunrise.

Orange skies alight above urban blight
blinking motherboard of these city lights
the circuits begin fraying
all these alleys lead away from me

I'm only out for the time it takes
for messy thoughts to catch clean escapes
at bus stops and in dive bars,
lonely strides scuffling on sidewalks

               save me something
              just one ******* bite
              run-off melts were raging,
          I aged fast floating through city streets
                          at night

And I----
----Keep on glancing at my wristwatch
tugging collars, setting time bombs.
Doors are locked after the last call
I'll head home, turn my bed down
let my head assess the damage while I dream

Ashen nights are mine to walk borderlines
off-rhyme steps enjambed  as the clocks unwind
I tick off all the checkpoints;
all the scotch sinks and the gin joints

                send me something
              call or text to just say hi
               arctic fronts converging
              I'll be excavating frozen feet
                           all night


Slip and fall out on the sidewalk
          on a frozen pool of puke
                    I'm growing
Old and so detached
          and I am
                    losing all context
But, when the Springtime rolls around
I'll shave my face, stick out my neck
until again I'm winding watches,
strolling sidewalks, naming faces
                    and the lines
                        erased
                       tell tales.

Huddle
And shiver
And scowl
                turn away now
from snow-sunburnt faces
in cracked and frostbitten window panes
A chance taken lightly
won't wash away so easy
when the years mislaid thicken
and lips no longer speak freely

So I'll age, here, in silence
and dance with ghosts of better days
cross yellowing pages
stitch Bighorn peaks to the snowy plains

Your brown eyes were wet.
My greyscale soul had shattered.
While you left and forgot me,
I divorced from all that matters

Teeth grind
                                        ears dull
                       days fade out

Shuffle
And stumble
Sit down
             hunch away, now.
A strange face in red light
dissembles truths out of frosting frames
A proverb so simple,
"Not all is gold which glistens,"
Could have lived in the shimmer,
but I never listened.

So I'll dream, here, out westward
sleep next to bones of better days
let my drunken memories
trace bus routes back up to Winnipeg

Your brown eyes were wet
as roadway stitches unraveled
My blue eyes filled with question marks,
then they hardened up into gravel

I'm echoing footfalls on stairs
                  in the night
You're our spectral laughter in summer
                  bathed in cups of wine

                       Fade out.

Teeth grind. Ears dull. Days fade out.

Halt our shallow breaths--
         staccato fogs at the stoplights
Cling precarious in cold
like the frost on the stop signs.
The streetlights keep on winking
Winter's late but, now, it's sinking
                                       into bones
clawing coats
         shut. Clutching
                  wool to swollen throats

I swore I'd never stand here again
           at December's ******* doorstep--
ring the bell every weekend.
I always circle back every year
when
I take the same old punches
and wince when I hit play-back.

Halt my raising glass
        and analyze my afflictions:
28, alone and broke
so cop to addictions, now.
It's freezing--getting dressed
you've question marks in your brown eyes
It's hailing, breathing out
Carry my bags of old goodbyes
The walls just keep on shrinking
But the outside's gonna swallow me
                                    Eaten whole
even bones.
     Spit me out back on Mydland road

I know I'll wind up back here again.
         at December's ******* deathbed
sleeping in every weekend
Held all chips, played hands, drank a year
then
I pulled my vacant pockets,
defrosted my losing bets

Mea culpa. So long. Stay friends.

"Twenty-*******-five to one,
                      my gambling days are done.
I bet on a horse called The Bottle of Smoke,
                     and my horse..." (Finer/MacGowan)

You said this place
     would grind down on tired hearts
I towed my line, now I'll die on the sidewalk
the second the snow thaws.
So bury me salted, so I season the runoff.

Your hands claw, climbing
tear at skin and the topsoil,
grinding teeth down on pay dirt
then back-fill the screaming blanks

This city's swelling up
it's growing livid with stories
left untold beneath street lights,
so sharp-footed walkers
drain its veins after midnight.

And you're filled up--had enough
of the graphite sky.

             but my
2 cents, flung into the Clark Fork
say I'm still zipped up
   in the peppery cold and the dark

Still socked in,
write your name out in graphite
'til ink-dark clouds bruise the day through the sunlight

The swelling's going down, now
I'll die on the sidewalk
and knocked down pegs
leave the story untold and forgot.

Foot prints in these streets
might seep right into the ground
as the signs in the front yards'
           colors fade out to brown

Your Friday night soul
likes skimming Summery books
while my Sunday night heart
is Falling into my guts

And you're alright. And I'll get there
if the map's coffee stains
          circle back to last year

Bridges will stretch
asphalt fingers cross spans
and wry, crooked grins
fill concrete faces with cracks.
The houselights go down, we're haunting the wings
                          with old breath.

Breathing inside. Locked up in
                  this intermission
Don't want to see the final act.

I'll drink down the light
your northern laughter provides
if you promise you won't cough up my
                  frowning blue eyes

Your aspects are warming
while I'm walking in snow,
the miles home piling,
             melting into my coat.

Are you alright? I suppose so.
The calendar spits up
                crossed off days and dead months

But I made my bed
and I dealt this hand
and I stacked the deck--
now the alarm is set.
When the sun comes up glaring, I'll glare back
                   from my bed.
Then, from there, I'll fall back
                     to old habits again
                   one more time.

Dead-eyed through drenched days
spent seeping through blank space
to spill another swollen week out
                  on a crumpled page

I'm young, but not that young
grown up and dumbed down
so I'll drag one more punchline day out
                   'til a year's ground down

Face the wall...
Aimed at the door...
But we're still here and so
         I suggest that we share this bar...

Stumble out
regain my feet
and pluck my keys from the gutter. I've
been dancing with defeat and, now, I'm
driving on the borderline
between familiar haunts
and same old foes that I conjure--
Now I start to realize that, like you,
they've got my number.

They've got my number.

Rhombuses of light
             separate us--not by much

                     but these

square miles of concrete
              will divide us just enough

Deadpan Friday nights
space out workday lifelines
until another starving paycheck
               grounds another flight

Your time spent so costly
the bill's due, your words freeze
a season's regrets regressed. Empty
                bottles taken out.

Besieged by walls
Afraid of doors
the nights leak in, you turn
     the lights out, choking down one more

Waking up,
you find your breath
you find your feet and your reasons. You
have found your boots and keys and lost your
fear of the season's size.
Between the years and months
you've been a ***** and a miser
when the skyline creaks and sighs, remember

you've got my number

And I've got your number

The world's got our number--
                 --it's okay to come over
We can laugh at the night
               at sunrise, we'll run for cover
'til the season is over
          now, just run for cover...

Cumulonimbus smudged over sunlight
                     with dolphin grey
                            thumbprint
No clouds here, just 10 million
       orange midnight suns
        we're talking late
     'til heavy eyelids drag us groundward.
This city seeps and trickles down
          to sleep in groundwater
wet-haired, waking, throbbing sunrise
cased in eyes half-closed.
At most, we hoped.
At best, we strove.
At worst, we overworked ambitions
wanting, waiting, watching closely 'til
5 ticks until alarms.
                 At least we slept awhile...

Push a day off to one side
drink in the citrus street light
           lock arms with the night

Forty minutes, fifteen thoughts,
a hundred steps to next time
          check off the prayers you've tried--

--on frozen fingers. Through
your wind-chapped lips let one more dangle
              off your westbound life.
You've been here too long;
             You got nothing to lose left,
              quiet, spit it out
                             into the sky
                             Turn right.

Lay my 20's down to sleep
slept my way through a decade
             now open pint glass eyes.

Pushing thirty, since I'm ten
I've been grasping at something--
           something undefined

     On frozen feet been walk-
-ing south-by-southwest, hands in pockets
                clawing empty space.
Haven't got one dime
               to toss into the water
               but Northwest winds
                                  frame my North-        
                                   east face.

Now, there's no reason these nights can't
   dissemble our daytime woes.
With bottles uncorked, we'll paint
   friendly faces on daylight foes.

                     The ground's not shaking.
                     Your breath's just ragged.
                     Faces shine and cities glow...

but, come sunrise, we're flying blind,
            while keeping our heads low.

Still I remember the time that
   we chucked that radio
from that rooftop sinking to
   street level, speakers played Manilow

                     Transistors scattered
                     Our footsteps clattered
                     Down the fire escape we'd go

laughing hard, police up in arms
          alleyways lead us home

                        We wanted
                         to up and ******* leave

                         But we're tethered
                         to this place by our heartstrings

                         So we're always
                         celebrating our defeats

                         We wanted
                          to up and ******* leave

I'm off and running in circles
   around my own lasting fears
You're off the wagon and just
   rolling dice hung on rearview mirrors

                           We're contemplating
                            on relocating
                            back to those familiar years

but sunrise comes, we're twiddling thumbs
   and hoping stormclouds clear.

Signals get mixed up
                    we're broadcasting *******
I'll shout 'til my mouth's dry
                    you'll spit like a dragon
                the summers all static, now--
              I'll wait for the season
                to switch over channels
               for less interference.
                        On mute.

Bracing our brains
                               for primetime quakes
**** off a day
                              trapped in escapes

The fate of the union,
                        the sake of my habits,
Estate of illusions
                     auctioned off from your pulpit
                   I'll shovel the static 'til
                   the street's within reaching.
                   Now follow new channels
                   with buzzing devotion
                           switched off.

It's **** obscene, these best-laid plans
     of mice, of boys, of knuckleballers--
     world-weary one-trick cowards
     plotting courses into safety,
     taking wrong turns on the way

Now I...? I was never good with signs
     green and white--bad with directions.

I'm the walking ghost of a better me
And the guy I used to be and me,
                                      we don't speak.
                      Estranged.
             Roll through each day
             horizon's far from home.

Night blacks out gunmetal grey,
grey-brown slush fills city streets
and asphalt colored X's fill
our blue and coffee eyes
Fade out                          Fall back.
               blizzards come
          Ride out the margins
static clouds fill white-out skies
Skies we grasp for
                           skies we shy from.

lofty climb, now plummet earthward
                       So
         these muddy footprints
         trace out the path I took.

            "What a twist!"
                 Yeah.
                  ****.

It was colder weather, when I left
Still winter in the bottom drawer
Photographs and birthday cards--
  humming hard, December streetlights
  still laughing at chilly footsteps
             one-two
             one-two
          No three-four

Now wake up August heat undressed
Yeah, wake up next to skeletons
   who "think that we should just be friends."
And--anyway--the bedroom's small
   barely bigger than a closet

Fall asleep in sheets of sweat
claw for the ceiling
          dreaming heavy
Awake. Wet pillow.
     Tousled hair at 4 a.m.
And, for my part, the ceiling clawmarks
soak my dreams up, snow in sheet rock
      spells your name
(I should prob'ly wash my sheets)

Though I'm often ****** on beer,
When Autumn comes, I clearly hear, through crisping air,
   their wilting voices hailing
          while I try to soothe the
          drowsy year

But it's still cold and I'm still here
though "here" has moved
and every year is heating
so, I repeat, repeat, repeat

"What starts September
   dies November
February ******* hurts
  the same way as July."

The bottom drawer's still cased in winter
Skeletons still claw the doors
I sweat. I shiver.
**** I miss you...
Hope you're living. Me? I'm aging
Faster than I was before.

Triangulate on northern skies
pinned positions. Drawing lines
until the 106 meets up with the 45
             On a hot night,
   I might keep this smile alive
long enough to trace the alleys,
salt the streets with summer sighs

It was night time
And the sky took a bite--
drank our blood, we drained our pints
           and we set the world to rights
Switched to whiskey--
         same color as your eyes.
   You said mine looked sad, but you told me they were nice

Now I want you to know I once had something to say
on the tip of my tongue
             but it's late and I have aged.
                So get walking...
And I guess I'll do the same.
Meet up in the middle, in the Fall, some other day.

Buzzing brains. Familiar clots,
I'll slur my way through second thoughts
blot out doubts with distilled friendships
          roll tonight into tomorrow's
           bottled sleep

Counting sheep until the ground leaps up
           to kiss these puckered features,
I'll appease habit with sacrificial dreams.

Face lowered
                                      head under-
neath; the miles fold into a hood.
Long-distance.
                                     **** tired.
      of bleeding small amounts for greater good.

Quaking hands. Familiar shakes,
Five years remembered--fish for dates
Blurring hands held, smudging smiles
               cloud last night under today's
               soaked, waking sleep

Counting months until a year is up
      then fade out of the foreground
and appeal for a new picture to see

Hands folded
                                         in pockets
I'm southbound. Quench my thirst. Walk back home
Long distance
                                          still learning
what it's like to face a year out here alone.

Gertrude, Stradbrook, River and Roslyn,
off of McMillan, my thoughts froze on Osborne
A drive through the Village on slippery streets
Bought records, drained pints
                        swallowed down summer nights
Back home in Wyoming--think I'll be fine
                         'til some night, filled to gills
                          trip through streets with a stranger
                          and sing "One Great City"
                          through swollen closed throat

And I remember...

Confusion Corner, commuting through cold streets
Watched you drive as the daylight died
I narrow my Focus,
                                     you eased into traffic
The Assiniboine ran and was watched by Riel

January.
Johnson's Terminal.
London Fogs.
Took Yellow Dogs for long walks
and Exchanged now for then. Snapped pictures, again and again.

Snow up to my hips
Spent a night at St. Boniface
We cased a cathedral, your friends seemed to like me.

Lines ran from reserves, over oceans and borders.
Your hair ran down shoulders, brown waves for a blanket.

Winterpeg, Manitscoldout
Portage & Main
Shivering, smiling
at a Tavern Uniting with friends,
'til we took the King's Head...
We took the King's Head.
Long live the king.

January.
Magic Thailand.
Curry soup, curried thoughts thawing,
melting, falling from pickled brains,
                      through lips chapping

I donned my Tuxedo, chopped down Seven Oaks...
Your Catholic heart spoke
     reached out for St. James.
     St. Vital answered behind Fort Garry's walls...

Our hearts, they were neighbourhoods
And the streets were all salt.

Blistered paint on your blue '02 Focus

To the City Center of the continent's middle
Form a Perimeter
Frame a city
Bullseye, center, a Gold gilded Boy
he leans into sky, as they sing, as I hear.
The road North Ended--November, it was.
I think, one year prior, in Robin's Donuts
front doors swayed, on hinges that sighed metallic,
I caught your eyes--organic, unplanned--
               through fog frosting lenses
Caught them, held on
               Held your deep brown
               In my gunmetal blue

Seasons will chase--haste to follow more seasons
White streaks to green
and the Red River runs.
When they score at the ballpark,
"Go Goldeyes!" the cheer sounds
Cheer. Cheer!
The Guess Who still ****,
but the Jets completed their round trip
"Go, Jets, go!" so the cheer goes.
"Cheers!" Cheers like bells.
             Bells
           Pealing
Peeling like your sunburnt back
            Bells
          Ringing
           Striking
Bells singing long
Bells sounding loudly from Grace Bible Church
  baptizing Baltimore as it kisses Osborne

Bells ringing. Round sounds.
Round rings for fingertips touching
Bells
Round sounds that hang on my neck
and sing me to sleep every night--
remind me how badly you wanted those bells
                I denied you.

They sing "Left and Leaving"
             and show me old scars
          they ring and peal and strike
                         and sing
                         unending.

I remember March of 2008
Dropping my toque in the mud-and-slush street
            We took Pembina Highway
              Ate Vietnamese.

I remember...

Confusion Corner,
Commuting through cold streets,
Watching you drive as the daylight died
In your blue '02 Focus
Ease us back into traffic,
The Assiniboine River.
And Louis Riel.

So tell me...

Comment-allez vous, ce soir?
Je ne suis pas comme ci, comme ça.

Write these words on empty stomach
          unasked, I spilled my guts.
You said, "My life's a joke
                  and every choice a punchline."
You just wrote my prologue and the afterword
           is dangling off my lips, now;
            on the tips of tongues.
Steel night skies thrum and echo
                  when the bells are struck.
Goose Creek pays tribute to the wide Missouri.
              I can't offer much--
           clenched hands and mouth clamped shut.

Fling some words at empty wall space
          from corners, room warms up
My reddened face obscured
           behind two frost-fogged lenses
Guess I penned the punchline. Now my line-worn face
                 is crinkled up and frozen didn't get the joke
Tried to make a map out of the
              words we spoke.
These streams pay tribute to a sea of memories
              Now you don't say much
             "Good luck," and "Stay in touch."

        Clenched hands and mouth clamped shut.

Nights spent with fingers crossed
make it hard to return texts
but the message I forgot?
Whilst occupied with ****-talk
and sliding 'cross these frosty sidewalks
was you won't be forgot

Coughing, choking down this spite I chew
I'm through with slowly dying here
and rotting out my youth.

I know this stream of epithets
pouring out my mouth
sometimes missed its mark
and unfairly wet you down

I'm letting this town down, now
But it always did the same,
and shame's the only lesson I have learnt.

So, with bridges burnt, I leave behind
these Dow and Main Street blues
Shoes worn through, I bid adieu
to Broadway and Alger
to the lumps in my throat
     on the 5th Street bridge...

Forgive me my distractions,
dispositions and my scowls
I'll reposition my tongue, now
     for milder words

But still...

This place will ******* **** me
if I don't leave, right now.
So plant one on my cheek,
or clasp my arm and see me out.

This ghostly whisp of smoke
has found its proper breeze
and punched its ticket
to touch nostrils in a new locale--

--Punched its ticket to say, "**** it."
     and pull a solid form
     to cover all this ether in.

The granite sky's eroding
          --finally!--
Rocky dust falls down, lithic snowflakes
But I'll shake it off my shoulders, now.

I'm sick of sighing, sick of shame.
Fed up with guilt, I settled my bill
with all I can't forget
  
          Because,

"My kids will never scrap **** 'round here,
And I won't die crying in a pint of beer..." (McGowan)
I'll turn my back all fondly,
But sneer into the wind.

Under
Cloudy skies in a serpentine Springtime
I'll cast dice in the alleys I know

I'll take time and I'll tally the faces
and store 'em in my pockets
          'til the Autumn unrolls

Wait, now, for the doc's diagnosis
Take my place by his cabinet of potions.
The room's hot, now, and so is my bowl of stew
I'm only out as long as it takes me to eat

Hedge my bets? No, let it ride...

In this vacant space each night...

Until I'm cured.

          Across town
Footprints of a girl I met once
Forget names, but remember a face

She counts steps--the ink on the pages runs--
She always goes for walks
          and reads books in the rain.

She knows clowns, she hangs out with assassins
Skin's real tough, but she's always laughing
Today's cold, now, but she's bundled up so tight--
Besides, she only ever ******* laughs at the snow.

And when the season laughs right back...

I'll hide my face, she'll change her tack...

Until it's right.

          And these sidewalks
          might be onto something...

This town is famous
     for pretty faces,
     broken legs,
     and misplaced names--

A sentence penned,
An Oxford comma
          dangling off the edge of pages,
setting off appositive phrases,
lighting fuses--accidental--
          phasing out of view and staging
     tactical retreats

The winds of February mark off
intersections
                           Dow & Broadway
Midnight laughs echo off stratos
     then fall back--
     snowstorms at midday.

Caught in the rain on Sunday evening
this place don't stay awake so late.
Except, perhaps, for pretty faces,
misplaced names, or broken legs--
But forget the Oxford comma
         retreating, drenched, off of the page.

Drinking in an evening
while sipping down a year as a day's ending.
With sun setting, keep repeating
          old retreats.
The streets freezing and specters easing
     from exhaust pipes
speak of an emptying, of fatigue, of a face framed
          in memories
of arguments, apologies, in-jokes and glass nights'
          frost-embossed panes--
     of walks down roads well salted
     of adding salt to stir-fry curries to season

Which?
--Not Spring, just yet.
Who cares?
--Well, me!
I'm drinking in an evening
Sipping. Gazing out southwestward.
I trace with soft eyes a solid skyline.
See the Bighorns' darkened profile,
     backlit with bright fading
hinting, half-telling
          stories
          promises
       half       making
that they'll still be there, tomorrow.

I met those mountains long ago--
     I've known them my whole life,
     you've only seen them.
I met them long before you,
but they remind me of you
and that's not fair.

I'll write and say same words I've said
     ten thousand times before
Until I don't believe
     that I believe them anymore
Because riding on this carousel
means spinning one's wheels
into moist ground
     thought I had some traction
     but it seems I thought too soon--

So I am off of the rails
Off the wagon. Off to nowhere.
'Cuz it's, "Onward, lads,
to one more night spent
covering ground's familiar footsteps
and sheeting snowy sidewalks
in the dollars we don't have."

And we'll lay 'em kinda thick
     press our prints in Presidents
pro bono comes advice
from the corners we can't heed,
but por argento comes the cure
we choose to **** our heads with

I'll pick a place, polish my boots
     get far as my front steps
where I'll sit until the summer rolls around
     and sweat rolls down in sheets

Short sheeted best hopes,
shortened thank-you notes
and lists of ****** quotes
lay around and resonate
on floors and facebooks,
tabletops
in summertime,
          when it rolls around

But, now, it's winter
and we're all 364 1/4 resolutions older
     --at 33 revolutions per minute,
     and 16 ounces at a time,
     we can almost cope.

Now, it's winter and the sheets are
          still too warm

Now, it's winter and we sheet the
          snowy sidewalks
in Presidential faces
in the dollars we don't have
and the cure we **** our heads with
keeps us safely insane
'Cuz in a world built by psychopaths,
the sane don't always last.
And, if I'm the last one out?

I'll sing a song and **** the lights before I go.

Summers just stifle
then they drift off into winters
and the difference ain't so great
     anymore anyway.
And when another year passes
out its half-sketched glances,
missed chances dry out in the corners of eyes

And it's a day for waking
                           late
A season paid
                          off
pitched to poets
Hours served up to opponents--
Parched or freezing--
     **** it
when you're all dried out and heaving,
lost on Olive, barely breathing,
sprint straight out of Hell and nick some whiskey.
Then complete the cold walk home.

Sun set before five
we were laughing loud at starlight
          We just
let our frosty voices drift up,
break upon the moonlight's
                       streaking skies

Aware my time's up...
You wear your life stitched on your sleeves

Midnight chimes shattered on winter nights
and fell back on the skyline that we shared

Time is up, the wine's all drunk
Stains map out the story over miles
With borders crossed
and chapters done
We'll fold it up, tattoo the legend on our backs

Ground begins to thaw
March will knock all of this ice off
          so just
try to stay dry, keep your chin high
just float until the flood
                            decides to pass

When summer dries up...
You'll wear the story on short sleeves

Midnight chimes call back the winter nights
and outline those same skylines we once shared.

Springtime's up, winter wine's drunk
Map is stained with purple markered miles
Borders erased
and chapters closed
It's folded up, we bear the legend on our backs.

Now pack your luck up in handbags
hurry hard through your back door
                      These nights
Are colder than they ever were
dousing fires on 13th floors
When flame-lit streets frost over,
you can see a little more,
and the dancing sidewalk shadows let you pass

Now cross your arms and your fingers
clear the cobwebs from your head
                      You're off
And running on your rabbit's feet
clutching clovers to your chest
10,000 lucky pennies
for a Greyhound ride out west
when you get there, count to 7 and exhale

The ceiling ***** you in
And the rafters wrap around
     and devour
While the daylight outside
          begins to doze.
The corners of the room
Start to accuse with silent
phrases which they toss into your mouth.

          Time to walk to the next one
          Alone.
          Single minded but softly, bluntly so.
Time to dare the world to judge you
'Cause you're forgetting; "frogs will jump...
          by request or no."

Time to stumble to the next one
     Bile summoned to your throat
Doors open and inhale you
As you think about your breathing
Far too hard and carefully.

Half heard conversations start to wrap around your neck

     Time to loosen the belt
          around your waist.

You step out for some air.
They're smoking--fancy that.

Time to fall into the next one
     When you belch it tastes like soap.
The floor springs toward the ceiling
     Drop a dollar in the cuss jar,
                                ***** mouth...
And cinch your hat down tighter
     Like you hope it eats your head.

Conversations yank you to the ******* floor
And the rafters chew you up
          and spit what's left into your hungry hat.
The corners are done with you...
...so it's time...

So I'd like to see you try and crawl home.

Thaw out frozen thoughts
shoulders hunched against the sleet
stride crunching on the downbeats
familiar haunts are blurring
Hurried northward daydreams don't
trickle south through Douglas Firs
But remember how our paths crossed?
Stargazers both--I balked first

4 blocks down, I'm held accountable
for crusade hypocrisies
I keep tucked in my back pockets
and rolled up in uprolled sleeves

The sun returns, or so I'm told
but it's been evening for awhile.
And, if they're wrong, where are we then?

Left knowing we're left under miles
                         of mounting snow?
Left knowing we've got to stop--
                   but not one clue how to cope
Wondering where hours, weeks and years went
counting calendars we've peeled off walls
Counting marks on records
               marks on faces
Counting calendars
Tally scars--stubborn reminders
     of how we got where we are.

Ground my skyward thoughts
in the grid of frozen streets
I'll sink deep in the hoarfrost
coats the ground, turns steps to beats
I'll keep time, now, walking westward
hands in pockets, eyes on feet.
I'll remember how your breath looked
off of Brooks Street walking east.

Nothing special left to say
but got a hundred thousand words
A hundred thousand fireflies
     caged up behind the teeth

Quite a mouthful--Quit your shiver-
-ing and open up to speak
     If they should listen, this time
Brand new words will greet their faces,
reinforcing fond embraces with fresh breath
and--any luck--a brace of good advice

1) Come around more often.
    We care and you forget
     Fast as years careen these days
     the months and weeks can get
                                 declensive,
                                   dent you,
Deepen lines on once-young faces--
So come around
Remember.

2) Stay in lofty spirits
    And surrender late debts
     List off last year's enemies
    Rip out that page and let
                       your clothes dry
                                dive in
Feet first if you want to; why not?
But do the diving.
Don't forget.

If not then mouth will open
     a hundred thousand sparking points
Released into the night to no one's
     sight or understanding

Noncommittal? Cop to mirrors
Reflection fades out grey to white
     Thickly fogging breaths will empty
out a chest and tile the night air
Wield an ashy look and when lakes
freeze over, find a way across
     to shining shores
     the water's span, a world away.

Write some words on my blank page face
They'll trickle down into my mouth
There they'll be slurred, but still flow out--
          now yours? now mine?
          Shared property?
Joint custody of low opinion
Seems ungainly, seems unwise
     when miles of snowfall separate
               by hundreds,
                      tens,
                    and ones.

Miles of squares and cylinders
Of circles, splotches, mandelbrots
in whites and blacks swarming and buzzing
     warring in the hissing static.

Hissing static, searing cold
Underdressed on Tuesday morning. Shivering
chattering teeth mouth curses, shattering
     winter air with whiskey breath
     and wishful thoughts.

Write words upon my blank-line lips--
     "Disloyal," "faithless," "stupid," "shameless."
They're falsehoods, true, but they're tattoos
I guess I'll wear them for a while.

Such lies flow down my throat
Now nameless but for lies, I'll turn
I'll the crawl the miles home.