Gamblers' Phobias

Halt our shallow breaths--
         staccato fogs at the stoplights
Cling precarious in cold
like the frost on the stop signs.
The streetlights keep on winking
Winter's late but, now, it's sinking
                                       into bones
clawing coats
         shut. Clutching
                  wool to swollen throats

I swore I'd never stand here again
           at December's fucking doorstep--
ring the bell every weekend.
I always circle back every year
when
I take the same old punches
and wince when I hit play-back.

Halt my raising glass
        and analyze my afflictions:
28, alone and broke
so cop to addictions, now.
It's freezing--getting dressed
you've question marks in your brown eyes
It's hailing, breathing out
Carry my bags of old goodbyes
The walls just keep on shrinking
But the outside's gonna swallow me
                                    Eaten whole
even bones.
     Spit me out back on Mydland road

I know I'll wind up back here again.
         at December's fucking deathbed
sleeping in every weekend
Held all chips, played hands, drank a year
then
I pulled my vacant pockets,
defrosted my losing bets

Mea culpa. So long. Stay friends.

"Twenty-fucking-five to one,
                      my gambling days are done.
I bet on a horse called The Bottle of Smoke,
                     and my horse..." (Finer/MacGowan)

Chapter 30

You said this place
     would grind down on tired hearts
I towed my line, now I'll die on the sidewalk
the second the snow thaws.
So bury me salted, so I season the runoff.

Your hands claw, climbing
tear at skin and the topsoil,
grinding teeth down on pay dirt
then back-fill the screaming blanks

This city's swelling up
it's growing livid with stories
left untold beneath street lights,
so sharp-footed walkers
drain its veins after midnight.

And you're filled up--had enough
of the graphite sky.

             but my
2 cents, flung into the Clark Fork
say I'm still zipped up
   in the peppery cold and the dark

Still socked in,
write your name out in graphite
'til ink-dark clouds bruise the day through the sunlight

The swelling's going down, now
I'll die on the sidewalk
and knocked down pegs
leave the story untold and forgot.

Yard Signs

Foot prints in these streets
might seep right into the ground
as the signs in the front yards'
           colors fade out to brown

Your Friday night soul
likes skimming Summery books
while my Sunday night heart
is Falling into my guts

And you're alright. And I'll get there
if the map's coffee stains
          circle back to last year

Bridges will stretch
asphalt fingers cross spans
and wry, crooked grins
fill concrete faces with cracks.
The houselights go down, we're haunting the wings
                          with old breath.

Breathing inside. Locked up in
                  this intermission
Don't want to see the final act.

I'll drink down the light
your northern laughter provides
if you promise you won't cough up my
                  frowning blue eyes

Your aspects are warming
while I'm walking in snow,
the miles home piling,
             melting into my coat.

Are you alright? I suppose so.
The calendar spits up
                crossed off days and dead months

But I made my bed
and I dealt this hand
and I stacked the deck--
now the alarm is set.
When the sun comes up glaring, I'll glare back
                   from my bed.
Then, from there, I'll fall back
                     to old habits again
                   one more time.

Numbers & Covers

Dead-eyed through drenched days
spent seeping through blank space
to spill another swollen week out
                  on a crumpled page

I'm young, but not that young
grown up and dumbed down
so I'll drag one more punchline day out
                   'til a year's ground down

Face the wall...
Aimed at the door...
But we're still here and so
         I suggest that we share this bar...

Stumble out
regain my feet
and pluck my keys from the gutter. I've
been dancing with defeat and, now, I'm
driving on the borderline
between familiar haunts
and some old foes that I conjure--
Now I start to realize that, like you,
they've got my number.

They've got my number.

Rhombuses of light
             separate us--not by much

                     but these

square miles of concrete
              will divide us just enough

Deadpan Friday nights
space out workday lifelines
until another starving paycheck
               grounds another flight

Your time spent so costly
the bill's due, your words freeze
a season's regrets regressed. Empty
                bottles taken out.

Besieged by walls
Afraid of doors
the nights leak in, you turn
     the lights out, choking down one more

Waking up,
you find your breath
you find your feet and your reasons. You
have found your boots and keys and lost your
fear of the season's size.
Between the years and months
you've been a souse and a miser
when the skyline creaks and sighs, remember

you've got my number

And I've got your number

The world's got our number--
                 --it's okay to come over
We can laugh at the night
               at sunrise, we'll run for cover
'til the season is over
          now, just run for cover...

Midname Sunrise

Cumulonimbus smudged over sunlight
                     with dolphin grey
                            thumbprint
No clouds here, just 10 million
       orange midnight suns
        we're talking late
     'til heavy eyelids drag us groundward.
This city seeps and trickles down
          to sleep in groundwater
wet-haired, waking, throbbing sunrise
cased in eyes half-closed.
At most, we hoped.
At best, we strove.
At worst, we overworked ambitions
wanting, waiting, watching closely 'til
5 ticks until alarms.
                 At least we slept awhile...

Wristwatch Ticks & Compass Clicks

Push a day off to one side
drink in the citrus street light
           lock arms with the night

Forty minutes, fifteen thoughts,
a hundred steps to next time
          check off the prayers you've tried--

--on frozen fingers. Through
your wind-chapped lips let one more dangle
              off your westbound life.
You've been here too long;
             You got nothing to lose left,
              quiet, spit it out
                             into the sky
                             Turn right.

Lay my 20's down to sleep
slept my way through a decade
             now open pint glass eyes.

Pushing thirty, since I'm ten
I've been grasping at something--
           something undefined

     On frozen feet been walk-
-ing south-by-southwest, hands in pockets
                clawing empty space.
Haven't got one dime
               to toss into the water
               but Northwest winds
                                  frame my North-       
                                   east face.

Doppler

Now, there's no reason these nights can't
   dissemble our daytime woes.
With bottles uncorked, we'll paint
   friendly faces on daylight foes

              The ground's not shaking.
              Your breath's just ragged.
              Faces shine and cities glow...

but, come sunrise, we're flying blind,
   while keeping our heads low.

Still I remember the time that
   we chucked that radio
from that rooftop sinking to
   street level, speakers played Manilow

              Transistors scattered
              Our footsteps clattered
              Down the fire escape we'd go

laughing hard, police up in arms
   alleyways lead us home.

                    We wanted
                     to up and fucking leave

                    But we're tethered
                    to this place by our heartstrings

                    So we're always
                    celebrating our defeats

                    We wanted
                     to up and fucking leave

I'm off and running in circles
   around my own lasting fears
You're off the wagon and just
   rolling dice hung on rearview mirrors

            We're contemplating
             on relocating
             back to those familiar years

but sunrise comes, we're twiddling thumbs
   and hoping stormclouds clear.

Valued Subscribers

Signals get mixed up
                    we're broadcasting bullshit
I'll shout 'til my mouth's dry
                    you'll spit like a dragon
                the summers all static, now--
              I'll wait for the season
                to switch over channels
               for less interference.
                        On mute.

Bracing our brains
                               for primetime quakes
Kill off a day
                              trapped in escapes

The fate of the union,
                        the sake of my habits,
Estate of illusions
                     auctioned off from your pulpit
                   I'll shovel the static 'til
                   the street's within reaching.
                   Now follow new channels
                   with buzzing devotion
                           switched off.

Nice One, Shyamalan

It's damn obscene, these best-laid plans
     of mice, of boys, of knuckleballers--
     world-weary one-trick cowards
     plotting courses into safety,
     taking wrong turns on the way

Now I...? I was never good with signs
     green and white--bad with directions.

I'm the walking ghost of a better me
And the guy I used to be and me,
                                      we don't speak.
                      Estranged.
             Roll through each day
             horizon's far from home.

Night blacks out gunmetal grey,
grey-brown slush fills city streets
and asphalt colored X's fill
our blue and coffee eyes
Fade out                          Fall back.
               blizards come
          Ride out the margins
static clouds fill white-out skies
Skies we grasp for
                           skies we shy from.

lofty climb, now plummet earthward
                       So
         these muddy footprints
         trace out the path I took.

            "What a twist!"
                 Yeah.
                  Shit.

A Sleeper's Cell

It was colder weather, when I left
Still winter in the bottom drawer
Photographs and birthday cards--
  humming hard, December streetlights
  still laughing at chilly footsteps
             one-two
             one-two
          No three-four

Now wake up August heat undressed
Yeah, wake up next to skeletons
   who "think that we should just be friends."
And--anyway--the bedroom's small
   barely bigger than a closet

Fall asleep in sheets of sweat
claw for the ceiling
          dreaming heavy
Awake. Wet pillow.
     Tousled hair at 4 a.m.
And, for my part, the ceiling clawmarks
soak my dreams up, snow in sheet rock
      spells your name
(I should prob'ly wash my sheets)

Though I'm often soused on beer,
When Autumn comes, I clearly hear, through crisping air,
   their wilting voices hailing
          while I try to soothe the
          drowsy year

But it's still cold and I'm still here
though "here" has moved
and every year is heating
so, I repeat, repeat, repeat

"What starts September
   dies November
February fucking hurts
  the same way as July."

The bottom drawer's still cased in winter
Skeletons still claw the doors
I sweat. I shiver.
FUCK I miss you...
Hope you're living. Me? I'm aging
Faster than I was before.

Funny What Years & Drinks Can Do To a Body

Triangulate on northern skies
pinned positions. Drawing lines
until the 106 meets up with the 45
             On a hot night,
   I might keep this smile alive
long enough to trace the alleys,
salt the streets with summer sighs

It was night time
And the sky took a bite--
drank our blood, we drained our pints
           and we set the world to rights
Switched to whiskey--
         same color as your eyes.
   You said mine looked sad, but you told me they were nice

Now I want you to know I once had something to say
on the tip of my tongue
             but it's late and I have aged.
                So get walking...
And I guess I'll do the same.
Meet up in the middle, in the Fall, some other day.

Subduction Values

Buzzing brains. Familiar clots,
I'll slur my way through second thoughts
blot out doubts with distilled friendships
          roll tonight into tomorrow's
           bottled sleep

Counting sheep until the ground leaps up
           to kiss these puckered features,
I'll appease habit with sacrificial dreams.

Face lowered
                                      head under-
neath; the miles fold into a hood.
Long-distance.
                                     Damn tired.
      of bleeding small amounts for greater good.

Quaking hands. Familiar shakes,
Five years remembered--fish for dates
Blurring hands held, smudging smiles
               cloud last night under today's
               soaked, waking sleep

Counting months until a year is up
      then fade out of the foreground
and appeal for a new picture to see

Hands folded
                                         in pockets
I'm southbound. Quench my thirst. Walk back home
Long distance
                                          still learning
what it's like to face a year out here alone.

Re: Bells, My Note

Gertrude, Stradbrook, River and Roslyn,
off of McMillan, my thoughts froze on Osborne
A drive through the village on slippery streets
Bought records, drained pints
                        swallowed down summer nights
Back home in Wyoming--think I'll be fine
                         'til some night, filled to gills
                          trip through streets with a stranger
                          and sing "One Great City"
                          through swollen closed throat

And I remember...

Confusion Corner, commuting through cold streets
Watched you drive as the daylight died
I narrow my Focus,
                                     you eased into traffic
The Assiniboine ran and was watched by Riel

January.
Johnson's Terminal.
London Fogs.
Took Yellow Dogs for long walks
and Exchanged now for then.

 Snow up to my hips
Spent a night at St. Boniface
We cased a cathedral, your friends seemed to like me.

Lines ran from reserves, over oceans and borders.
Your hair ran down shoulders, brown waves for a blanket.

Winterpeg, Manitscoldout
Portage & Main
Shivering, smiling
at a Tavern Uniting with friends,
'til we took the King's Head...
We took the King's Head.
Long live the king.

January.
Magic Thailand.
Curry soup, curried thoughts thawing,
melting, falling from pickled brains,
                      through lips chapping

Form a Perimeter
Frame a city
Bullseye, center, a Gold gilded Boy
he leans into sky, as they sing, as I hear.
The road North Ended--November, it was.
I think, one year prior, in Robin's Donuts
on hinges that sighed metallic,
I caught your eyes--organic, unplanned--
               through fog frosting lenses
Caught them, held on
               Held your deep brown
               In my gunmetal blue

Seasons will chase--haste to follow more seasons
White streaks to green
and the Red River runs.
When they score at the ballpark,
"Go Goldeyes!" the cheer sounds
Cheer. Cheer!
The Guess Who still suck,
but the Jets completed their round trip
"Go, Jets, go!" so the cheer goes.
"Cheers!" Cheers like bells.
             Bells
           Pealing
Peeling like your sunburnt back
            Bells
          Ringing
           Striking
Bells singing long
Bells sounding loudly from Grace Bible Church
  baptizing Baltimore as it kisses Osborne

Bells ringing. Round sounds.
Round rings for fingertips touching
Bells
Round sounds that hang on my neck
and sing me to sleep every night--
remind me how badly you wanted those bells
                I denied you.

They sing "Left and Leaving"
             and show me old scars
          they ring and peal and strike
                         and sing
                         unending.

I remember April of 2008
Dropping my toque in the mud-and-slush street
            We took Pembina Highway
              Ate Vietnamese.

I remember...

Confusion Corner,
Commuting through cold streets,
Watching you drive as the daylight died
In your blue '02 Focus
Ease us back into traffic,
The Assiniboine River.
And Louis Riel.

So tell me...

Comment-allez vous, ce soir?
Je ne suis pas comme ci, comme ça.

Punchline Tributaries

Write these words on empty stomach
          unasked, I spilled my guts.
You said, "My life's a joke
                  and every choice a punchline."
You just wrote my prologue and the afterword
           is dangling off my lips, now;
            on the tips of tongues.
Steel night skies thrum and echo
                  when the bells are struck.
Goose Creek pays tribute to the wide Missouri.
              I can't offer much--
           chapped hands and mouth clamped shut.

Fling some words at empty wall space
          from corners, room warms up
My reddened face obscured
           behind two frost-fogged lenses
Guess I penned the punchline. Now my line-worn face
                 is crinkled up and frozen didn't get the joke
Tried to make a map out of the
              words we spoke.
These streams pay tribute to a sea of memories
              Now you don't say much
             "Good luck," and "Stay in touch."

        Chapped hands and mouth clamped shut.

Exit, Stage NOW!

Nights spent with fingers crossed
make it hard to return texts
but the message I forgot?
Whilst occupied with shit-talk
and sliding 'cross these frosty sidewalks
was you won't be forgot

Coughing, choking down this spite I chew
I'm through with slowly dying here
and rotting out my youth.

I know this stream of epithets
pouring out my mouth
sometimes missed its mark
and unfairly wet you down

I'm letting this town down, now
But it always did the same,
and shame's the only lesson I have learnt.

So, with bridges burnt, I leave behind
these Dow and Main Street blues
Shoes worn through, I bid adieu
to Broadway and Alger
to the lumps in my throat
     on the 5th Street bridge...

Forgive me my distractions,
dispositions and my scowls
I'll reposition my tongue, now
     for milder words

But still...

This place will fucking kill me
if I don't leave, right now.
So plant one on my cheek,
or clasp my arm and see me out.

This ghostly whisp of smoke
has found its proper breeze
and punched its ticket
to touch nostrils in a new locale--

--Punched its ticket to say, "Fuck it."
     and pull a solid form
     to cover all this ether in.

The granite sky's eroding
          --finally!--
 Rocky dust falls down, lithic snowflakes
But I'll shake it off my shoulders, now.

I'm sick of sighing, sick of shame.
Fed up with guilt, I settled my bill
with all I can't forget
   
          Because,

"My kids will never scrap shit 'round here,
And I won't die crying in a pint of beer..." (MacGowan)
I'll turn my back all fondly,
But sneer into the wind.

Face Tally

          Under
Cloudy skies in a serpentine Springtime
I'll cast dice in the alleys I know

I'll take time and I'll tally the faces
and store 'em in my pockets
          'til the Autumn unrolls

Wait, now, for the doc's diagnosis
Take my place by his cabinet of potions.
The room's hot, now, and so is my bowl of stew
I'm only out as long as it takes me to eat

Hedge my bets? No, let it ride...

In this vacant space each night...

Until I'm cured.

          Across town
Footprints of a girl I met once
Forget names, but remember a face

She counts steps--the ink on the pages runs--
She always goes for walks
          and reads books in the rain.

She knows clowns, she hangs out with assassins
Skin's real tough, but she's always laughing
Today's cold, now, but she's bundled up so tight--
Besides, she only ever fucking laughs at the snow.

And when the season laughs right back...

I'll hide my face, she'll change her tack...

Until it's right.

          And these sidewalks
          might be onto something...

Faces, Legs, & Names

This town is famous
     for pretty faces,
     broken legs,
     and misplaced names--

A sentence penned,
An Oxford comma
          dangling off the edge of pages,
setting off appositive phrases,
lighting fuses--accidental--
          phasing out of view and staging
     tactical retreats

The winds of February mark off
intersections
                           Dow & Broadway
Midnight laughs echo off stratos
     then fall back--
     snowstorms at midday.

Caught in the rain on Sunday evening
this place don't stay awake so late.
Except, perhaps, for pretty faces,
misplaced names, or broken legs--
But forget the Oxford comma
         retreating, drenched, off of the page.

Backlight

Drinking in an evening
while sipping down a year as a day's ending.
With sun setting, keep repeating
          old retreats.
The streets freezing and specters easing
     from exhaust pipes
speak of an emptying, of fatigue, of a face framed
          in memories
of arguments, apologies, in-jokes and glass nights'
          frost-embossed panes--
     of walks down roads well salted
     of adding salt to stir-fry curries to season

Which?
--Not Spring, just yet.
Who cares?
--Well, me!
I'm drinking in an evening
Sipping. Gazing out southwestward.
I trace with soft eyes a solid skyline.
See the Bighorns' darkened profile,
     backlit with bright fading
hinting, half-telling
          stories
          promises
       half       making
that they'll still be there, tomorrow.

I met those mountains long ago--
     I've known them my whole life,
     you've only seen them.
I met them long before you,
but they remind me of you
and that's not fair.

Sheets

I'll write and say same words I've said
     ten thousand times before
Until I don't believe
     that I believe them anymore
Because riding on this carousel
means spinning one's wheels
into moist ground
     thought I had some traction
     but it seems I thought too soon--

So I am off of the rails
Off the wagon. Off to nowhere.
'Cuz it's, "Onward, lads,
to one more night spent
covering ground's familiar footsteps
and sheeting snowy sidewalks
in the dollars we don't have."

And we'll lay 'em kinda thick
     press our prints in Presidents
pro bono comes advice
from the corners we can't heed,
but por argento comes the cure
we choose to kill our heads with

I'll pick a place, polish my boots
     get far as my front steps
where I'll sit until the summer rolls around
     and sweat rolls down in sheets

Short sheeted best hopes,
shortened thank-you notes
and lists of shitty quotes
lay around and resonate
on floors and facebooks,
tabletops
in summertime,
          when it rolls around

But, now, it's winter
and we're all 364 1/4 resolutions older
     --at 33 resolutions per minute,
     and 16 ounces at a time,
     we can almost cope.

Now, it's winter and the sheets are
          still too warm

Now, it's winter and we sheet the
          snowy sidewalks
in Presidential faces
in the dollars we don't have
and the cure we kill our heads with
keeps us safely insane
'Cuz in a world built by psychopaths,
the sane don't always last.
And, if I'm the last one out?

I'll sing a song and kill the lights before I go.

Canby & Olive

Summers just stifle
then they drift off into winters
and the difference ain't so great
     anymore anyway.
And when another year passes
out its half-sketched glances,
missed chances dry out in the corners of eyes

And it's a day for waking
                           late
A season paid
                          off
pitched to poets
Hours served up to opponents--
Parched or freezing--
     fuck it
when you're all dried out and heaving,
lost on Olive, barely breathing,
sprint straight out of Hell and nick some whiskey.
Then complete the cold walk home.

4:50 pm

Sun set before five
we were laughing loud at starlight
          We just
let our frosty voices drift up,
break upon the moonlight's
                       streaking skies

Aware my time's up...
You wear your life stitched on your sleeves

Midnight chimes shattered on winter nights
and fell back on the skyline that we shared

Time is up, the wine's all drunk
Stains map out the story over miles
With borders crossed
and chapters done
We'll fold it up, tattoo the legend on our backs

Ground begins to thaw
March will knock all of this ice off
          so just
try to stay dry, keep your chin high
just float until the flood
                            decides to pass

When summer dries up...
You'll wear the story on short sleeves

Midnight chimes call back the winter nights
and outline those same skylines we once shared.

Springtime's up, winter wine's drunk
Map is stained with purple markered miles
Borders erased
and chapters closed
It's folded up, we bear the legend on our backs.

This is My Lucky Suitcase

Now pack your luck up in handbags
hurry hard through your back door
                      These nights
Are colder than they ever were
dousing fires on 13th floors
When flame-lit streets frost over,
you can see a little more,
and the dancing sidewalk shadows let you pass

Now cross your arms and your fingers
clear the cobwebs from your head
                      You're off
And running on your rabbit's feet
clutching clovers to your chest
10,000 lucky pennies
for a Greyhound ride out west
when you get there, count to 7 and exhale