Ahead of Closures

Drops to flakes
        show the wind howls sideways
Missed my exit so mile-markers
        try to tell the tale
            --not too loud--
          I've listened
                   to the wipers' march
For 3 hours--interested
                     in just one thing...
--Not where I'm headed
--Which road I'm on
--"Is my tank dry?" or cold coffee in foam cups.

It's more a question of...
--"Are my lungs full?"
--"Is my head clear?"
Liver's ready
I can stomach one more night.

My head aches
            from the glaring headlights
Dim my brights and adjust the defrost
           feel the year bleed in
               to my bones
           I'm listening
                 to flakes on windshield
Still 3 hours more 'til sleep
                         that's just one thing...
That must be lacking
This road I'm on
Plays its hand--rest ain't in the cards tonight

Is it a matter of...
       cooling convictions?
       freezing weather?
       emtpy tank or
                   getting snowed on every night?

Slide to a halt...
           on the shoulder
           hit my hazards
           it's December
                 and it's 10 o'clock at night

Make it home
And I'll toss one back
Drop it down
To bring sirens back--
They'll sing their songs
And I'll swallow facts

Make it home
And I'll toss my map
Into the wind
Put my keyring back
Onto the peg
Where it's always sat--
         I know I'll leave.
         I can tell I'll leave again.

Patchworked. Piecemealed. Worn on Sleeves

     tellers, accountants
     shopowners go
as the streetdoors close
and the months grow cold.
     the daily grind was set on
           real fine
and the year grew old
                                 right before my eyes
           and that's fine.

            i kinda blew up
            a few nights back
but there's white on black--
i've survived attacks
that were worse than that
and though i know we've been feeling
                 cold
still we've got strong backs
              that's what i am told.

So, late at night when our breaths are seen,
          no more feeling mean
          no more blind, obscene
                           scenes rehearsed.

Let the doors come unlocked
     And the meter break
     Far too much at stake
     To stay pinned or lost
     Or waste time

Shops close in summer
And commutes in winter's no worse.

"The days grow shorter
'Til they grow warmer--
          Then they wax stronger,
So just wait longer
          And GET FINISHED
         WEARING BLANKETS OF ICE,
     You're a damn good kid
     So remember it
     And go live."

              Now.

'Cause a patchwork heart is sewn on this sleeve
     And it's got some dents
     From some accidents.
     But, you know, it's immense
     And it's sewn there for the
                               World to see.

The Expatriate Saints

Take time...    
Try to stay awake
And maybe...
     We'll repatriate
Then when we find...
          a trail that we can take,
          we'll make our way
          back home across broken gold lines.

Now, I'll time...
     the minutes of the days
But still we'll...
     Talk 'til the skies turn grey
Of stark, sharp lights...
          that hack the clouds and say
          all of the ways
          to lay in our graves or evolve.

The night stays still,
     while the wind howls
     and the snowflakes
     melt to frozen
     whitewashed walls
             cover the map.

So I'll sit still
     while the lines blur
     and the ink bleeds--
     feel the rumbling
     icy road
          because we are--

--One tight tug on the collar of my coat
One last shot to thaw words froze in my throat
          I'll need no lies to get through this one.

Us kids we sit and share the warm
Out here in Western winter storms
          Press on, we'll make it fine through this one.

Get home to bed and I shove some things aside
then sleep sound beside Swiss Army knife,
shirts pants and a couple unpaid bills...
It's a cluttered sleep, I know. But still...

Slow breaths on my frosted window panes
We'll recap hours after I awake
     but still,
     but still,
We are the Expatriate Saints.

Another Brand of Global Hunger (Hallogen Pinpoints)

Towers tipped in neon lights
  Heroine sparkles in frigid night.
Smokestacks? Or syringes
     piercing flesh and vein with binges
               forced into unwilling blood.

Belching smoke from Western fields,
I can't shake--they look like needles
Pinning life flayed for display

Maybe it's just me
Or maybe it's the night
But I swear they look like spit-poles
      You could almost feel it writhe
       if it weren't for the sleeping
       induced by frostbit weeping
       you could feel its shuddering writhes

If these aren't pins or dirty needles,
   do you think they might be teeth?
Because veins are running dry
   --Who says vampires aren't real?

'Cause we see the living consequence--
     paradigm bathed in red.
And, you see, the way we're living,
     means we're all the living dead.

Cartography

There was talk of exploring
                         empty lots
                 until the sun came up
And laying dotted lines
                         on empty maps until
                  We found ourselves new homes
With softer beds and warmer sheets

Make it as far as frozen streets--
       decide to paint it black
                         when
             We've run out of red
          Our hands are getting chapped
                         and

We've been running ourselves dry
Out here beneath polished winter skies
Then right before
          our hazy, X'd out eyes
Come falling
           snowflakes from the clear
Think they must be the
           first five of the year
And lately, I swear all we get 'round here
Are busted plans and second tries

The chips are falling
    so let's cash our winnings
out and sup on underpinnings found
as tacit answers start to drift

As tacit answers start to drift
     the question's seeding up
     the frozen ground

And rougher textures make for traction
       so I'll get a grip and count
out snowburnt seconds
     'til we find the map to another
      point of black.

Fermenting Story

Give the night two glowing eyes
     The ashes spilling on your lap
And blue goes grey
And stories
        stay
clamped tight behind
       your pursed and frozen lips

Back alley ways through black
                          and lighter greys
We'll bend our steps up northward
     past the frosted window panes
and swallow stories whole

Winter's on its howling way
     We're making up and think we're on the mend
(How are you making out,
     My stony, ash-faced friend?)
'Cause I been lying under
                    aching, heavy skies
And now I'm chewing on another sad story

The year's ragged breaths
              now begin to freeze
I gotta level with you:
--Speaking honestly--
The silence feels just like a fight.

"We could skate down frozen streets."
     You say to me and I keep
          seeking half-lived heat
Pretend to listen
          and I'm streaking through
                                'til Spring
Don't want another season's empty lies.

"I'm fucking sick of this place
     it's always, always only
     filling empty space--
but we keep living here.
     And I know that we're still
     just way too damn young to die."

Winter just arrived today
     You're breaking up and I don't think you're on the mend
How are you taking the
                muddy, snowy end

                  that never ends? And, brother,
                            winter skies fall slow.
Time to spit out every fermenting story

The year's rattled breaths
           froze and, now, they're ceased.
Let's take another shot for the deceased and face the fact that
we are all marked and diseased,
At least that's what I've seen 'til now.

That's all I've seen 'til now.

'Til now.