Seams

13 years, so many jobs
so many names you half forgot
got caught and collected
                    at the corner of your mouth.

Outside, it's one more night,
one more stitch in this rag doll year
and you can still hear the way she'd
                    try to talk while laughing
any given Sunday night.

Might be you half forgot.
Might be the roaring years
drowned out the hum of their names
in your ears
              earned your stripes, now wear 'em well
spell out your name in snow, then
go lay down in the bed you made.

Outside, it's lights and noise
and visible breath
footbeats on sidewalks,
forgotten names with smokers' coughs
all caught in the roaring tides of
                                                the time.
But it's blood clots inside;
a parenthesized appositive
                      redefining what you lost.

In the clot, one sunk to the silt,
                  to the dregs.
In here, your living room
               is outside the parenthesis,
closed out of the open air.
Spare change beneath the lamp
strangely mocking outside lights,
                 glinting bright,
                    but silent.
                       Inert.

And, just outside,
          those city lights
they flash for others;
those with jobs and funds,
          with lovers,
with smiles still left
                         in the tank.
Not fake ones constructed
by nights getting fucked up
or upended frowns painting faces
like clowns'--
                 you'll get out.

                You'll make it back;
              black clouds blow past
       and the tide runs out fast. And--
                           lastly?--
    You're made of better stuff than that.

Where's My Hat?

Your feet got tangled
in your own damn name
                             Layed
nights out end-to-end,
now you're the oldest one here drinking
in this dingy, shaking basement
                   by at least "a couple years or so,"
so shrink from searching eyes.
Strike up that shitty band again--
                  your teeth have grown tall enough
                          to ditch this ride

                          Outside,
              some drunken crusty's
             trying hard to pick a fight
      and shadowed necking in the corners
           punctuates the "Got a light?"s
                  like drowsy eyes and
             yawning sighs parenthesize
the way you check your phone a thousand times

                                       "Hey, don't you work tomorrow?"
                                        Yes, I fucking work tomorrow and...

Though all these fresh-lit fuses
                                          sizzle--
--starlight studs in leather night--
the morning leaves you spark-singed
               paper, sulfur lungs
                 and sagging eyes

The stairway's fucking crowded
with a thousand younger yous,
feet creak the upstairs floorboards
cue the crooked smiles in familiar hues

               Bug pigs have pens
               and feet have boots.
               Old hats need heads
     and birds, they need their roosts

So let the lines fill in
on this fermenting face
and lay this craggy grin
          into its worn-in place
          beneath these creaking stairs
          and let this basement shake.

Un-Moving Day

Check off
     all these belongings from a list
that I wrote in thick blue marker
on a cardboard strip I ripped
    
                    There's a book I lost at 26
                    with dog-eared pages fading gold
                    16 pens, 45 cents
                    a dented tin of birthday cards
                    unnumbered rolls of mints

Sit back
     on the carpet in the heat
take another sip and press on
to the bottom. To the green.

                    There's a look you had at 28
                    with bow shaped mouth and arching eyes
                    15 hours, many road trips
                    your crooked tooth would slant your grin
                    Never saw me fall right in.

                    And today I pace apartment floors
                    or sit amidst a box flap hall
                    halted breath, an iron hour
                    clad in sweat, still packed away
                    in taped up, cardboard yesterday

                    There's a photograph, from back '09
                    atop the slippers that you gave.
                    Raging smiles, orange lights at night.
                    The River Walk in wintertime.
                    And it's my favourite pic.

But the 21st was moving day
and all I've got are pickled dreams,
an empty house and waiting boxes,
"Tear my guts out," so they say.

                    No fight quite like a duct taped box.
                    No companion like your face.
                    No shrink quite like an empty bottle.
                    No wake-up call like moving day.

Jokes & Goofs (So Much Fun)

Wake up laughing
cackle into the kitchen
9:15 a.m. on Sunday
cop-outs couched in cups of coffee
          Sofa King Redundant
Lock the door but no one's coming
          I'm the LORD OF ALL I SURVEY!

Survey says the pilot's out
sink is full and
blinds are drawn.
It smells like sweat and silence
and a mostly empty fridge.

"Everything the light touches is yours!"
Outstanding power bill
          bank statements
               unreconciled
unwashed clothes
and unsent thank-you notes.
Shrink-wrapped books on how to cope.

Maybe I'll ask for a raise...

Bitter Nights. Best Friends. Bastard Town.

I know the contours of your face
just like the streets of my hometown.
          you'd squint your eyes
                 when laughing
     at the corner of Main and Dow.

Blacktooth Brewery
               on frigid Friday nights
frosted glasses, fogging breaths
and laughs caught up
               in tightening chests.
Kendrick Park can keep its towering trees
                                   and midnight charms
if I can keep your laughter with me
                       when I sail for newer shores

Something in familiar signs,
          buzzing blackened Bighorn skies,
keeps us just above the water line--
          afloat for one more night.

Sheridan Iron Works
Red, rigid lettering a raised, distant hand
Watch it wave from on the hill
above the Kendrick boardwalk,
soak December in our smiles
choking back our April cries.

Snake's head yawning
          from the I-90 exit
slithers down Coffeen and tails
          our icy footsteps
     Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.
Shake this town to its bones
with our Thurmond Street jokes
and our glowing Gould Street hearts.
I hope
          this is enough
          to buoy our asses up
          against the weighty ballast
          of this tiny, yawning town.

Settlers of Catan
played on a windy Wednesday night
over another drowning round
of clinking Wagon Box pints.

The contours of your face,
icy streets of our hometown,
our squinting, gasping laughter
on the corner of Main and Dow.

Blacktooth Brewery.
               Frigid Friday nights.
Fogged up glasses. Frosting breaths
and laughing, clutching tightening chests.
               This freezing town
               will test your mettle.
               Settle up and bring your friends.