It drones on, with empty determination,  
the moving mouth;  
pouring out a jumble of blurring monotones,  
onto halfhearted minds.  
While stiff gears grind the rust of in-imagination  
and spin silent thoughts,  
that stay quiet and subdued.  

The people move in silent obedience  
to some empty hearted duty;  
colonizing the corridors like clockwork,  
hoping to find refuge in the knowledge,  
behind their murmuring doors.  

Solace to the lurking shadow,  
a fragile future,  
hung by fears and dollar signs.  

An intangible force,  
that makes our feet march in time,  
along the road to success.

supposedly a mature
well-put-together
functioning adult
who has travelled
both up and
down escalators
     of all sizes
countless times
throughout his life
there will always be
a fleeting moment
a child-like panic
as he shuffles onto
the grinning maw
of those toothy steps
still experiencing
that lingering
sense of unease
he would get
while younger
climbing or descending
dragged along
by driven parents
or rushing onwards
to keep pace with
assured friends

in that split second
before sole
and metal conjoin
overwhelmed by
the constant shifting
of this unwelcoming
corrugated tread
with calculations of
when and where
to place his feet
in time with
the ever-moving
conveyor of steps
frozen momentarily
with the thought
that he might
miss his footing
trip and fall
even though
deep down he knows
he has managed this
innumerable
times before

One more swell now motionless,
Realness from afar,
Drifting pointlessly,
Into a world of dubiety and falling stars.

The apprehension of letting go,
A fount of cognizance and angst,
With advents of dawn,
Seeing through the night, to no more be recast,

A future, said to reflect the age,
Alight, yet dimming anew,
Abaft the scud of clouds,
Burning itself out – the sun that never quite withdrew.

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