Red Eye

Rub these eyes.
What a misspent night.
I cast one die, tumbled through to light
               aimed away from
               where I left you
on a corner, towards a bender.
               ...You know...
Hung my hat
on these stupid hopes,
tried to steer us two on an icy road.
               Slid through stop signs,
               you stopped speaking.
Anyway, I'm flying out tomorrow.

Tired as Hell
switch planes in Minneapolis
On the way from Richmond to Montana
This far North,
     the snow is never far away.
               Last one through
                       the gate
               and still sleeping.

Slug this Fall
down in airport bars.
A Wintery move, but I got disarmed.
               so I aim to
         where I came from
Gift myself with what's familiar
               ...You know...
Out here there's
not a lot of noise.
A few pinned dots between the bullet points.
               Here it gets cold,
               just a few miles
from the real Continental Divide.

Heavy coats
and fortified spirits
keep us warm between our vacations.
This far North
     no Saints to preserve us.
               Not much
                between
          here and Seattle.

Defroster

You've been out here in the wind awhile.
Now, I don't mind the snow.
But I'll lick my chapping lips and ask,
     "Are your toes getting cold?"

It's all been tacks and eggshells
since the Summer hung its hat;
October laughed, we shrugged our shoulders,
                                                        covered miles,
but still we left the biggest thoughts unasked.

               Clutch your coat
                     and walk
          another snow-clad block
                      with me--
              We're almost back.

                          Fight
                  these doldrums
                            off
                       with me,
                          invite
                 the snowflakes in
                 my open doorway
                  closing off night.
                    Fuck the cold,
                  'cuz we're all in.

                    Leaking away
        'til night gives way to the day.
     Until the Springtime thaw rolls in.

I've been frozen in my tracks so long,
the ice hangs from my chin.
I still dangle on each laughed-out word
      that you toss in the wind.

You say you're sick of shivering--
sick and tired of last year's coat.
"It's all old hat, but it's familiar..."
                                  sketch a smile
across my face, melt snowballs in my throat.

                 Grab my arm
                     and leap
               that final icy step
                      with me--
              We're nearly home.

Maybe we were never
gonna be a thing but cold.
But I still like the way you hold
your shoulders when you laugh.
Maybe we can never grow up,
     just keep getting old...
Stick with me tonight, I swear
we'll warm this place by half.

                          Fight
                  these doldrums
                            off
                       with me,
                          invite
                 the snowflakes in
                 to our bleary eyes
               swelled full of night.
                    Out of reasons,
                      we're all in.

                     Leaking away
        'til night gives way to the day.
     Until the Springtime thaw rolls in.

Civic Wins

A pity that your city couldn't find it in
the budget to prop up another "civic win!"
'Cuz the clinic closed its doors at 6 p.m.
                   for the final time.

When you're wearing out your shoes on their unplowed streets
in the Winter, while they cheer the college football team,
will the ledger sport the error margin for relief?
        Or will your hole-filled coat suffice?
                           Goodnight...

                             It's so hard to say
               if we could script out any other play.
                          The blocking's down.
                           It's so hard to know,
                     when your prescription's low,
                          what you're gonna do--
                    or where you're gonna go now.

The new athletic center on the campus gleams,
a glass-and-money beacon. They slashed faculty.
Rent is climbing ladders with the cost of heat
                   all the God damn time.

Your eye's on midnight pleasure at the liquor store.
That snowy route will wind you by the nice wine bar,
and then past the clinic's closed and boarded doors,
                   under buzzing lights.

You see him through a window sipping fine, dry whites.
His vote to cut off funding drew his party's line.
His lips are sketching praises for the team's O-line.
            That's a city councilman's night.
                          Good times...

                             It's so hard to say
               if we could script out any other play.
                          The blocking's down.
                           Will the curtain fall,
                     when cooler nights turn cold?
                           What you gonna do?-- 

                        What you gonna do now?

Real Bitter Hours

The night is cold. November tends to be.
I tend to burn out quick.
Those talks all sound the same to me.
They tend to make me sick.
So I spit up a few fake goodbyes
and glide through doorways, out of sight
               to find
I've got a bag to grip again.

These sips don't go down easily,
like back when we were kids
spending neon nights together
and pretending to shed skins.
               No,
they hit like bitter fists now;
no new memories, just bruised skin.
          Once again--

   it aches after they leave.

And all the ways they always find
to always leave you far behind
will never fade from memory
no matter how far your way winds.
The faces change, but not the times.
               They've gone.

          Again, you circle back.

The walk home's cold like two-thousand-and-twelve,
when I fled from myself--
from ghost of future Christmas me,
past "CLOSED" signs, beneath bells
in the churchyard. Wanna ring my neck?
'Cuz--cuss me, Father--I am wrecked.
               And I
can feel them sneer on the way out.

These sips won't stay down easily,
like when you were a kid.
Tonight, they tasted bitter.
Bitter wind chews wrinkling skin.
                 With
the feeling rising fast now
through your guts: they're not your friends.
               Once again,

      it burns when you exhale.

And all the ways the always found--
deflate, un-name you, pitch you out--
will always chase you doggedly,
however deep you dig you down
into the fucking frozen ground.
               You know...

   And they know that you do.