All I can remember is that time in Wal-Mart
when your older sister came to me and asked:
“Is it true that Payton went to the ****** bin?”

I wonder where she heard that lie and how many
more were threaded among Honesdale locals,
weaved into their perceptions of my family--

their shoulders betrayed them when they turned
away as if we were the diseased ones rotting
inside-out--maybe we were, in a way--but at least

swallowing all this salt healed our wounds
faster than your actions would fade from memory.
I punched you the day I found out even as you

scoffed, laughed, you hadn’t ever taken me seriously.
At 17, I had learned not many people would--but
my revenge came after I moved three hours south,

when your father died of cancer, your best friend
crashed your mother’s car, your sister fled
all the way to England to escape the mistakes

eating at her shadow, and I got out of our hellish
town. You became rooted among manure, ***-
holes too deep to outgrow--I’m sure you’re choking

on worms by now. And when I finally reach
the lofty sky, I’ll hold the sun between green hands.
I’ll hide its light and warmth from you.

The sleet is drawing boxes 'round
our mud-and-snow sashed towns.
We'll check 'em off
                      with crunching footsteps,
slash our gallows grins through static
weather. Nervous laughter fights off winter
while somnambulist nights
                    hold the anthill days at bay.

And each repeated conversation
coats a thrumming undercurrent
echoed by the groaning rivers
in their arthritic fatigue.

     where the ice piles up
              like car wrecks.

And, out of those disastrous angles,
     jumps up and trips back down.
          Blinking eyelids, right then left.
               Sunrises. Sunsets.
Dusks and dawns in places familiar
wading through liminal space.

Circles darkened. Footprints filled in.

The heat just circles lazily.
Our flushed and clammy brows
will **** askance
               and sweat while footsteps
melt our swaying way through boiling
sidewalks. Nervous laughter dulls the impact
of seared, rapid fire nights.
             "Ha." "Ha." Shrug off another.

And all repeated reminiscence
does is hamstring overthinking
of the closing jaws of traps
in these rusting western towns.

        where winds breathe dust
                by mouthfuls

So, into our familiar mishaps,
     ***** up and falls back down
          melting into neighborhoods
               dress down, upbraid us.
'Til our feet do not walk circles
'round these wilting Western towns.

In this small town you'll visit many places, see new faces and learn how to get all kinds of ****** up
You'll visit these basements and lofts
You'll make lots of friends
You'll create a lot of enemies
For we're all teenagers
Throwing our twenties at the stars
Checking each other's wrists
Comparing the number of stars to scars
At one point or another you'll give in
At one point you'll do everything your mother prayed about and swore you'd never do
Next thing you know you'll be 3 lines deep and sitting on a strangers lap
Four months later you won't be strangers anymore
Four months later ******* is just a new normal in your life
A year later you'll be kicked out of your parents house
A year later you'll be screaming and crying and listening to every sad song that's ever been written and compare  it to you
These are all the things you'll experience
As we wave hello and scream "Welcome to Bridge-City baby"
Because we are the survivors
With many problems and too many lovers
We are the kids who stay up all night and mosh to metal music till we collapse
For we are the kids they call sad and hopeless
Yet we're full of love and full of drugs
Yet there's never a dull moment and there's always someone laughing
We'll give you a new place to call home
We'll make you or break you
Welcome to Bridge-City baby
Buildings built of drugs and loud music
Home

One more follower
Than all the teachers and kids
At my school. Blimey.

I have become accustomed
to the way the barks of dogs
envelope me when I am walking
in my decrepit neighborhood
smoking a cigarette.

The sounds, all different, engulf
my senses. It is as though
they know with canine intensity
(they know deep in their teeth)
that the tar smoke smell
is out of place among the
damp trees and trodden flowers.

I have become accustomed
to the way Mrs. Parkinson
(old lady with Parkinson's)
turns her head away while watering
her smiling tulips when I
turn to look at her
looking at me with disapproval.

I have become accustomed
to the burn of the inhale
and flicking the embers on the asphalt
and stomping the finished
smoking stump when the
inches have turned to ashes.

My fingers are yellow and brittle
but I'll never give up the habit
because I like to feel
like a cowboy.