Charms Demystified

It was only partly cloudy when we showed up to the dance.
Polished, striding slick in all our style.
Lucky buckeyes stashed in pockets,
rabbits' feet clutched in our hands
          we marched up to that fancy fence
                             and asked,
          "When does the fun begin?"

It had only started raining when our escort let us past
the gate and led us on toward the door.
But I tripped on my own shoelace,
fell behind and watched you pass.
          Your smile turned to sour salt
                             and ash.
          You looked back and you laughed.

Count your friends up, count your digits
and your achy, sagging limbs.
Make sure none of them are missing
before you try to go swim.
                         'Cuz the rain is getting thick
                                                                   now
                        and this scene is getting sick.

                               Wretch me up.
               Soak me down right to the quick.

                     Thought somehow it could be saved.
                     Preserved or salvaged from decay.
                     Decidedly unjustified to chance.

                     But I bought these fancy shoes
                     with my last dime, got all these moves.
                     So waltz me off, stage right, with all the
                                             other trash.

The door was swinging inward, blocking your form from my view,
closing to a slant of yellow light.
Windows brightened golden inside;
out here ink night, black and blue.
          I saw you next through window panes
                             as you         
          cavorted with the lords.

The rainwater's slashing downward, raging cold against this face.
Curse escapes through blunted, yellow teeth.
Among finery you are dancing.
Here, I shiver in drenched rags.
          luck charms fell from fingers to
                             the dregs.
           When does the fun begin?

Count your friends up, count your digits
and your achy, sagging limbs.
Make sure none of them are missing
before you try to go swim.
                         'Cuz the rain is getting thick
                                                                   now
                        and this scene is getting sick.

                           Wretch me up.
             Soak me down right to the quick.

We scrawled out this stupid story
'til the pens fell from our hands--
'til exclamation points were
               dented,
              bent and
                  rent;
until we'd asked,
             "What's the final tally, mate?"

                       Now,
this bad and greasy hair
is hanging low over this face.
This shitty, used up body droops
and slouches toward its age...

And the rain is like no bitter ex's invectives
ever taste.

               What's the final tally, mate?

Means of Egress

I remember standing 'round
with the houses burning down
                                   around us--
--Shrugs. Not even ducking our heads.

"Well, there goes the neighborhood
and I suppose the timing's good,"
is all I can recall of what you had said.

They never wanted compromise.
And we were not too keen on listening in.
We'd always ignore consequence's size.
Now we're running, trying to mail our checks in.

          We want a means of egress.
          Yeah, just a means of egress.
          It's just a means of egress.
          That's all we really need right now.

They're coming, cracking knuckles now,
intent on cashing debts on our hides.
They'll lift their dividends out of our loot
unless we chase the setting sun to Telluride.

We never wanted compromise
So we put our neighborhood to the match.
Our detractors sporting cross hairs for eyes
are salivating for the thrill of the catch.

          We need a means of egress.
          We seek a means of egress.
          It's just a means of egress.
          That's what we really need right now.

           It's all we really need right now.

          It's the only thing we need right now.

I remember standing 'round
with the houses burning down
                                   around us--
--Shrugs. Not even ducking our heads.

Passing Grades

7 cups of coffee, never been so tired.
7 hours 'til the weekend
          I'm a garbage human.
Crawling on my belly through the dipshit bars.
Kick a couple empty cups and join the trashcan stars.

Monday morning, can't believe still at a job like this,
I'm a fucking nematode behind a dipshit desk.
Got a mouth full of fangs and a vinegar gut
Got my hands tied up
          got an empty wallet.

Empty out my guts on the concrete night,
pour the contents of my chest on the headache morning.
Chisel clear sight out of my crusted eyes
just in time to read a bright orange low fuel warning.

Fuck these stupid weekends and this dipshit space.
Fuck my empty-heart excuses and my dishpit face.
Clean the plate and wipe the slate clean.
          Leave this place.
Maybe try and settle down.
One more cup of coffee.

Sharp Angles

The noise of Fall is deafening.
Tie your shoes and grab your coat.
You shouted 'til your throat was sore.
I watched the seasons
          change from where I stood
          in piling snow.

Listen, friend: I've got a few bucks
and some reasons in one fist.
In the other, got some memories
          and the lining
of my pocket in a grip.

Do you wanna fight the cold off
               with me
          and a couple drinks?
I'm thinking one good weekend
and a friendly face could save this.
Blame this time that's piled between us,
               blame the
     deep snow as we sink.
Call me up and maybe we could
scan the skyline, eyes unblinking.

And I know it's been a long time.
Bills tied hands, time clocks grabbed throats.
You've floated, changing hue on wind
gusting. I'm a name
             you half forgot
          pissed in the snow.

And I'll be gone come Spring time,
with my lowbrow jokes; my crude reminders
of the sharp angles
          of the letters I use
          to spell my name.

Block Programming

You just left on a jet plane,
now the boys are back in town.
I've come down with a sickness,
but they still want me around.
          I don't wanna leave my couch
          and I don't wanna go downtown.
'Cuz without your face, this place is just overplayed.
Just wanna turn the volume all the way down.

I've been wandering old streets,
seeing all the oldest faces
in the places where we'd meet.
When they ask about you, I can't face them.

Now I've looped around this town
about a million fucking times.
Old group's predictable. Those clowns
still have the time of their life.

You're off to better things.
Hope Sacramento's fucking awesome.
Your absence here still stings,
and the radio here's still just awful.

I'm still hooked on old feelings
I was born to not outrun.
I wish I could stop believing
that the past was just more fun.
          I don't Journey off my couch.
         And I'm a Foreigner downtown.
Now I'm broadcasting doubt and my town is played out.
          I wanna drown the volume out.

I've been haunting same old bars,
seeing all the same old comrades,
between same sidewalks and same stars.
They never left and that makes me feel bad.

Now you've been gone 6 months,
and you might never come back.
If I hear "Sweet Home Alabama"
one more time, I'll fucking crack.

You're off to better things.
Hope Sacramento's fucking awesome.
Your absence here still stings.
And the radio's still fucking awful.

Turnstile Gates

The nuts
and the bolts
of your automatic habits
programmed scowls and slowing reflexes
               keep you
     matching wits with no one
               every night.
             And you keep
slipping
     back into your 6-month rut
     with your cold sneer,
      hands in pockets,
      your shrinking bank account
           and swelling gut...

The Mountain Lines meander,
you're just killing time and brain cells.
Ashy days are tasting bland.
Bus routes circle back on themselves
          like your footsteps every goddamn night,
          this town will raise its hand,
          you'll retreat into familiar flight.

                                                      Cr­inge
                                       'cuz it's so easy.
                                                       Cringe
                     at what you have become.
     Come back on your loop repeating.
                                 Potential's mocked.
       You're numb and deaf and dumb.

And you've never surrendered.
But that's not the same as winning.
Pinning hopes on snapping out
of it and sleeping hearts on sleeves.
          Heavy footsteps every goddamn night,
          a walking metronome
          passing cross-streets just to pass the time.

Your dull,
aching eyes
that you peer through every sunset--
programmed scowls squinting through preset acts--
               keep your
       dulling wits all silent
              every night.
           And you'll keep
walking through days like turnstile gates
and send each night on down the line.

Send each night on down the line.