I hopped into a
boxcar and ended
up somewhere
in Wisconsin,
mid-winter froze
in the air
and my breath
crystallized into
dead angels
that hung like
gargoyle icicles
hanging from the
gutters of cathedrals
of fog.

I found a bar
with bikes outside,
the lights inside
too dim to lighten
the sidewalk.
There was swearing
and the sounds
of poker chips
sliding on wooden tables
full of scratches
and gouges and
knife marks.

It was ***** inside,
dust clung to every
available surface
and none of the clientele
had had a shower
in weeks.
I ordered a whisky
and found myself
a dark corner
to watch the locals.
I was as happy
as a spider
in a cauldron of
dead flies.

There is something
magical about places
like this,
seeing the real
side of humanity,
the dirt and the
grime, the fights
and the blood
and the camaraderie
of like-minded souls
not fit for
public consumption.
These places were
perfect and I never
wanted to leave
any of them,
but tabs build up,
money runs dry,
glasses get smashed
and I get my
*** handed to me
by some ****
barmaid wearing
leathers and chains.

I think I’ll be good
tonight, a long
journey just behind
me and I need
a few drinks
to forget who
I am and where
I live in the universe.
Give myself the
company of a
different mind
for a while.

I think I’ll like it
here, in the snow
and the warming
whisky
that flows through
my veins like
hell’s blood.