Passenger

Hissing hydraulic brakes
your face
          was hiding.
April wind was howling.
Empty streets at 6 a.m.
A song of dust in squinting eyes.
You hunched your shoulders,
pulled your hood back,
smiled sunrise. Bus doors closed.

We'd always leak away
and trace these city limit lines
'til the night bled into day.
Bend footsteps back t'ward sunburnt lines
          that cross the map
          of the town we lived in
for all these sun-seared years.
Sat South of love and East of friendship,
but we feared nothin'!
Yeah, we were pirates,
          with smoke mouthed muskets
in hand. With full sails. And bold grins
          inscribed across each face.

And, back here, I still roll
through days
          on waves of
Autumn wind and memory.
Empty streets at 3 a.m.
Walk with our ghosts; still haunt this town.
You took your chances,
and a Greyhound
just past sunset--headed West.

We'd always leak away,
drive out past city limit lines.
And we'd drive until the day-
light bent rays back to eyes' red lines
          that crossed the map
          of the talks we'd lived in
for all those wondering years,
West of white lies and North of silence.
Guess we feared something.
But, now, what was it?
          And, now, where are you?
Out West with full sails and clear eyes
          inside a sunset face?

Cardinal Directions

Another silent homeward
walk across the Orange Street
                                          bridge
and I wish someone were walking with me.
                               These nights grow long,
                               and the days keep blurring.
My hurried steps wander over seams
of the self I have stitched
                     together from the pieces
of the last few years and the friends I've made.
                     And I'll defend my route
                     until the curtain drops
                                                       again.
                     Awash in quiet, I wait in the wings.

Cast my eyes North and East.
Spring breeze half-waves and passes too quickly.
Cast dice and hard clenched teeth.
Losing bets and snake-eyed bitter apologies.

Now it's a warmish Wednesday
night. I swallow hard. Just
                                        then
turned a bend and halted in my footsteps.
                                these thoughts reach back.
                                Your face at my fingers.
Scars from a car wreck when you were young.
I know they always made
                     you feel kinda self-conscious.
I really liked them. Did I tell you that?
                      It's a moot point, maybe,
                      but that shot still smarts.
                                                      Again,
                      feeling like the awkward Oxford Comma.
Showed up late to the party.
Just a mark too far...
                     ...sentenced to revise.

Cast my eyes North and East.
It's gotten late. Guess I should keep walking.
Drink down this history,
losing bets and snake-eyed bitter apologies.

Cast my thoughts North and East,
and I wish that you were walking with me.

Fugitives & Fox Horns

The weather's getting warmer
there's still static in your snowy eyes
and moonlight waxing pale shines
               a searchlight
          through this night's
humming summer city haunts
frames your face and splashes mine
with the truth that lies behind
a well-intentioned whitewash lie
                         that we care where we're going,
                         that we know what we're doing
                       and daily life don't scare us blind.

The Warden's got his dogs out,
our feet barely touch the ground.
And we're not looking back until
we hear no chasing sounds
               so sound the fox horn
and catch us napping if you can.
'Cuz we're just killing days,
running all night and foiling plans.

The silver night was spilling
quiet rainstorms on your red-gold hair
and my resolve was waning there
               against those
             smiles we wrote
in that crumbling concrete hour.
'Cuz we'd never been that close
to divorcing deceased ghosts
and coming from mud-caked boasts
                          that our chains never rattled,
                          that we never felt saddled
                        beneath our heavy, self-sewn cloaks.

The Warden's got his dogs out,
our feet barely touch the ground.
We're never looking back again,
and we won't make a sound
               so sound the fox horn
and catch us napping if you can.
'Cuz we're just killing days,
running all night and foiling plans.

Tunneled under the walls now
it's high time we put some ground
between us and our yesterdays
that howl like baying hounds.
               We'll pound the pavement
and catch a few winks where we can.
And we'll be living days
and sleeping nights and making plans.

Somnambulist

Fell asleep under clouds and I woke up here.
Fell asleep under clouds and I woke up here.
With a timestamp expired under looming storms.
The bleeding Spring never leaves
the rainy shores,
When I only wanna
                         live in the Autumn
of two-thousand-and-twelve--
in the days and the hours
before my guts soured.
when my hollow heart leaked down
                          shaking legs
                   into small town streets
                   and I forgot myself.

In the dregs of my doubts.
In the bouts of a cowardly man
                                unqualified
to carry your baggage
                         from the airport in Billings
to the bottom of my parents' stairs.

You stared hard that night
through the North Dakota Winter
and suburban blight.
November air
chilled my lungs and my breathing stopped.

In my Lillingtons hoodie,
I stood sad and shivering
and watched you drive away
through an assaulting army of falling snowflakes.
                            the last words
                  that you'd say to me were--
the last words that you'd say to me were

"I hope you're happy, you stupid scumbag.
No one will ever love you again."

"I hope you're happy, you fucking scumbag.
No one will ever love you again."

Fell asleep in a glass and I woke up here.
Fell asleep by myself and I woke up here.

Fenced

In the space between paychecks,
walking back and forth to nowhere
in a post-wage, first world shooting gallery,
                         we make
bland backgrounds,
                                dull grey blurs
from miles of stretching, chain link work weeks
                       sore legs stride fast
                        all the same.

Think of climbing but your lead feet won't play.

Blaming long nights for stiff necks,
wax poetic. Piling losses
pin each stanza to our thin, unrav'ling sleeves
                            we'll take
our chances
                        with cheap drinks,
cheap thrills and priceless conversations
                       swelled tongues talk fast
                       all the same.

We're taught to pave the roads to our own graves.