The way that Villard Street composes a tease I take every time,
as if I'll get all the way to Bozeman Creek;
drive my car into the culvert and wash away a year or 15...
Or how the trees on South Willson won't let me forget
the bookstore I loved before, back then--

Back when?
...when it was there. Never mind.

Leaves breeze-swaying/dancing to the rhythm of a laughter
     caught bitter in a swelling throat.

I remember a reminder. 7th & College. I'm not supposed to be here
          by now.
A future my youth had rejected.
     Never signed up for.
There's a piece of my fingerprint removed; it's shaped like
Scott Street--like rain in Osborne Village.

There's a piece of my Gallatin ghostwalk that's the color of Polo Park Mall.
It makes a Province of sense, but States nothing at all.
I'm invisible here.
                                Might be there too.
But my insides--my infrastructure--were built for Corydon Avenue
and the R.M. of East St. Paul.

You-me mailed a promise to me-you back then

     BACK. WHEN?
NEVER MIND.

from this Cat pawed zip code to R2E 1B9 and then what?

                                                          ­been a long time

Been a while for brown eyes to run dry. Drag my blue through the mud on Pembina Highway,
Dry my tired center out and sew me up, I guess, with
   a stitching
of 11th and Alderson. Try to debride these festering wounds
I gave myself, back in Kildonan or sliced open on Bird's Hill Road.

Had long enough to heal, ain't ya?
        I guess I've had long enough

Kneeling by another’s choice,
shackles stretch from my hands to my neck,
as I sit in the coffee shop on main street.

I can feel him approaching,
the one who will cut my tongue.
I picture him with fire in his eyes,
with horns sharp as blades and
avarice spilling from his ears.

Not one is safe,
not even in trade
for he will slice their hands off too.

Inspiration stripped bare as bony hands
form a necklace I am forced to wear,
with questions asked
came profession stolen.

My curiosity procured one line
as writer’s block fogged cerebral prowess,
out of his greed-dripping teeth
came words deeper than human ability.

“The moon forgot to rise, but I waited anyway.”

Bound and thrown into the basement
labeled creativity,
we were left to starve
as into his unpaid hands
trees began to wither.

We’re sitting here talking about my future

I’m dazing off into space

I’m not sure what i am

Or who i want to be..

it doesn't sound as terrifying
if you split it into
a million deaths,
a million lives, lost individually.
we're wasting our humanity
on empty background noise.
we're forced to lock our gates,
avert our eyes,
pay mortgage with our souls.
it doesn't seem quite as finite
if you just take your pills
and track your progress,
while they wash all the blood
off of the hands
that hold our future hostage.
a million deaths,
a million possibilities,
surrendered individually.

Think about your future, she said
I'm seventeen right now
In five years I'll be twenty-two
My life in five years
Imagine your life in five years
If you continue down this route
She told me it's not a matter of 'if'
It's a matter of 'when'
When it catches up to me
But it won't catch up
I'm seventeen right now
Living my life as I want it to be

I see in your eyes,
Two shallow pools of white with coffee mixed in,
I tremble before them,
You judge me too hard.
I hear it in your words,
The desperation reeks,
Its care you say,
I don’t feel it anyway.
I see the way you are,
Insincere and shapeshifting,
You’ll love conditionally
‘Don’t worry’ you reach your hand out
Each time we touch I die a little more
Its scary out there,
Look in the mirror to feel safe
My mind puts up a fight
So I need you all again
The pity holds me well
Well enough to try again

playing catch with conversations
passing our thoughts
on the taste of the sea
and the way things glisten
under the glow of hindsight
this rain, feels all too maroon
and the roads, like veins
carry forward the spring gloom
I dusted off my shoulders
Just for this today
so, we could sit in the presence
of silence, and a quiet peace
with the pattering of a gentle storm
in between each heartbeat
bouncing between words and worlds
throwing out into the wide open
how we feel about time
just as it passes us by

what if I’m waiting
for something that will never come,
what if I was not who I am,
what if I never questioned

what if I don’t want to look on prospects drear
what if I want to be the mouse, not man-
who only lets the present toucheth thee,
to not be a human
that guesses an’ fears.
What if I accept that
even the best laid schemes
gang aft agley,
that often my whimsical dreams
are to keep my actions at bay
tucked under my hat,
kept from leading me astray
because after all Burns said,
in proving foresight might be vain.

And maybe a humans life is what I was destined to get,
but I will not be stopped yet,
though plans may falter and not be met
I will keep here set
In my human form of pain and regret.