I've been a feature here for four years now.
You're an armchair or a doormat
Once you've been around
awhile.

I wanted fresh breath and a brand new face.
Maybe a companion just to
take up space beside
my side.

But the "EXIT" light was on too long.
"Eventually, they heed it or they just become
fading notes in a song
that we forgot we sung."

Or at least that's what you told me...

Or at least that's what I'll write here...

And what about you...?

It's a tangling grid of street names I
     keep
tangled on my tongue
3 inches under my eyes
     (They ask directions).

An end result of a series of
     hasty,
maybe-good decisions
I made 4 years ago.
     (Seek validation).

And what about you...?

There's a comfort here we can't escape,
take two for granted
and call to cancel coffee dates.

There's an ease that breeds friendships like ours,
Convenient and seasonal;
Friendships that really aren't.

"Rose Park" names our neighborhood
A few blocks slant, we prob'ly shouldn't
talk today...
Similar coordinates
A useless map. Mistake by any
other name...

Second chances, we won't get them.
And I guess we don't deserve them.

The State's an acci-
     dental sigh.
The town's a too-comfortable lie.
And you, I guess
are just another neighbor of mine.

the coaxing leering laughter and the coke crusted smiles hold me together through my daily trials until the mountains fade and plains stretch far and my childhood chains resurface along with old scars.

these foothills
rolling in pine and
grassland meadows,
where silvery lupine
follow the melting snow,
hint of the mountains to come
in spiny crags that
catch a cumulus pocked sky
cottonwood tufts rain
this day after solstice

A searing night. A price
tallied out and settled up.
I'm sipping down the size
of the smaller plights of times like these
in towns with bloodshot eyes.

Your coyote grin,
the gravel in
my creosote laughter were paving
the longest paths to saving graces
and filling up deaf ears.

I'm spilling every ounce
of all my guts
on your ears in the alley where I threw
               up last year
when I disappeared from your birthday.

Your coyote grin,
eyes glistenin',
you laughed kinda quiet while walking.
Familiar paths. We're talking crazy
through bitter whiskey sneers.

But I think, this hot night,
               I'm ready to believe...

Between the asphalt and the stars

Between the almost-fights
               and rushing cars

Between the blurring downtown bars...

We'll find some common ground.
The town's lit up, we'll trickle down
to a point of least resistance
where we can bid farewell to arms.

Or I'll find my way back home
to 1130 Longstaff
where my walls can close me in.

The moon jumps into the bathtub,
a crystal mirror reflecting the night sky,
black creatures dancing with insects on the surface.
An old man sits on his porch at the earliest hours,
sitting in his sepia rocking chair,
back and forth,
back and forth.
I’m home.

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.

Who are these farmers,
And who, these fertile fields,
Verdant under native grass,
That stand un-plowed,
That shake beneath the plow,
That lie now fallow,
That bear the planted seed,
That wear the heavy grain,
That await the Harvest pain?

And who, these Harvesters,
And who, these close-shorn fields,
Desolate in short-cut stubble,
That stand, stiff in silence,
That wear the heavy tracks,
That have endured the harvest,
That yielded up their dead,
That bristle through the falling snow,
That whistle wind-song low?

And who, these merry Farmers,
And who these stubbled fields,
Glistening beneath the melting snow,
That warm beneath the glowing sun,
That host the migrants of the sky,
That tremble the biting plow,
That accept the falling seed,
That wait beneath the welcome rains,
That cycle through the seasons once again?

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.

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.