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.
An online repository for the poetry of Kyle Kulseth © 2014-2018 Party Fowl Publishing
Friday, December 30, 2016
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
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.
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?
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
Photographic Evidence
The date is printed orange
in the bottom right hand corner
of my very favorite picture.
It's from two-thousand and eight
And, as my cramping legs keep ambling
every gavel foot falls faster than
the one that fell before.
I'm wondering
where the Hell the years have gone.
You were all brown eyes and wide white smiles.
I was all youthful bravado.
As your laughter swelled to confidence,
I was sinking straight down to the bottom.
And the water rolled on past us,
Goose Creek
swelled with the Summer run-off...
Tell me where did all this time run off to?
The moon is looming large
in the hazing, ashed-out corner
of my wine-enchanted eyeball
on this too-typical night.
And every hyphen lends some extra space
to staggered breaths as I recall your face.
Now I'm spelling out
my own verdict:
defendant's moving to convict.
I don't know the final cost.
But I got enough memories
to say what future I still have,
well it sure ain't coming free.
I got enough memories now
that I don't know where I will be
when a year is just a yawn and a sigh,
and you're still lodged
deep down inside of me.
You were brown eyes' living confidence,
I was yellow, fading cowardice.
I know you were the better one,
and I've always been scraping the bottom.
And the water stalled beside us,
Red Riv-
-er choked with Winter ice blocks.
Don't know why I was so dumb and frozen.
But thanks
for believing
all those years.
Departure Times
On Ohio nights, you've got fireflies.
Out West, we like our rifles.
Never pull your days out from the roots
'til the nights have all been ripened.
City lights are purpling blackened streets
and we can see our way to habits through
these neighborhoods...
Our sentences are carbines.
Order up a few more rounds.
I guess it's almost automatic
when the late reports all sound
like we've got
rain all week.
It's rain all week.
And you're so sick of parades.
You say you want a Summer.
One that never ends.
One that takes you back to Ashland,
brings you
sense of time and feelings for old friends.
I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket,
bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.
I'll see you in the Fall.
On Ohio nights, you've got fireflies.
Out here, we've got some mountains?
Never load your words into your clip
'til the shells have all been counted.
City lights rain gold on midnight streets
and we can feel our way familiar through
these neighborhoods.
Our paragraphs are Kevlar.
Knocking down another round.
When the night sky tries to swallow
you, the late reports all sound
like we've got
rain all week.
It's rain all week.
I was so tired of parades.
I'm looking towards the Winter.
Know how that one ends.
It'll take me back to Sheridan,
bring
sense of time and memories of old friends.
I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket
bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.
I'll see you in the Fall.
Out West, we like our rifles.
Never pull your days out from the roots
'til the nights have all been ripened.
City lights are purpling blackened streets
and we can see our way to habits through
these neighborhoods...
Our sentences are carbines.
Order up a few more rounds.
I guess it's almost automatic
when the late reports all sound
like we've got
rain all week.
It's rain all week.
And you're so sick of parades.
You say you want a Summer.
One that never ends.
One that takes you back to Ashland,
brings you
sense of time and feelings for old friends.
I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket,
bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.
I'll see you in the Fall.
On Ohio nights, you've got fireflies.
Out here, we've got some mountains?
Never load your words into your clip
'til the shells have all been counted.
City lights rain gold on midnight streets
and we can feel our way familiar through
these neighborhoods.
Our paragraphs are Kevlar.
Knocking down another round.
When the night sky tries to swallow
you, the late reports all sound
like we've got
rain all week.
It's rain all week.
I was so tired of parades.
I'm looking towards the Winter.
Know how that one ends.
It'll take me back to Sheridan,
bring
sense of time and memories of old friends.
I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket
bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.
I'll see you in the Fall.
Friday, July 8, 2016
Song of a City
They should still be singing stories, babe
about the fun we had.
Yeah, from the top of The Leg'--
throw an arm around your Golden Boy
dance them feet across the copper.
If those songs could take us back, I swear that I
would live out my days
inside of those strains
I'd keep my word this time.
and I
would arc across that place with you--
off The Leg' through Osborne Village,
through boutiques and record stores and maybe they
would hear us laughing at The Toad in the Hole.
Or we'd speed north, past Kildonan Park
'til they could hear us out in Lockport.
Hear us shout at Dubuc & Des Meurons
while they're waiting on their bus
to cut the frosty dusk with condensed exhaust
we could laugh right in their face.
I'd live inside those strains.
If they were singing about us from the top of The Leg'
we'd stream across St. Boniface Cathedral
and some young someones
running through hip deep snow in the cold
would pause and hear us.
We'd stir their soupy breath in the night,
sifting through our history.
If they forgot the words, it wouldn't matter.
Our verses: soft breathing, our choruses: laughter.
the sound of us moving through Exchange District taverns.
I want for them to start singing us songs
and I want a pint with you at The Yellow Dog.
No more 4 years of regrets and no more sad talk.
Just you and just me and maybe a walk through the city.
about the fun we had.
Yeah, from the top of The Leg'--
throw an arm around your Golden Boy
dance them feet across the copper.
If those songs could take us back, I swear that I
would live out my days
inside of those strains
I'd keep my word this time.
and I
would arc across that place with you--
off The Leg' through Osborne Village,
through boutiques and record stores and maybe they
would hear us laughing at The Toad in the Hole.
Or we'd speed north, past Kildonan Park
'til they could hear us out in Lockport.
Hear us shout at Dubuc & Des Meurons
while they're waiting on their bus
to cut the frosty dusk with condensed exhaust
we could laugh right in their face.
I'd live inside those strains.
If they were singing about us from the top of The Leg'
we'd stream across St. Boniface Cathedral
and some young someones
running through hip deep snow in the cold
would pause and hear us.
We'd stir their soupy breath in the night,
sifting through our history.
If they forgot the words, it wouldn't matter.
Our verses: soft breathing, our choruses: laughter.
the sound of us moving through Exchange District taverns.
I want for them to start singing us songs
and I want a pint with you at The Yellow Dog.
No more 4 years of regrets and no more sad talk.
Just you and just me and maybe a walk through the city.
Trains & Busses
On Ohio nights, you've got fireflies.
Out West, we like our rifles.
Never pull your days out from the roots
'til the nights have all been ripened.
City lights are purpling blackened streets
and we can see our way to habits through
these neighborhoods...
Our sentences are carbines.
Order up a few more rounds.
I guess it's almost automatic
when the late reports all sound
like we've got
rain all week.
It's rain all week.
And you're so sick of parades.
You say you want a Summer.
One that never ends.
One that takes you back to Ashland,
brings you
sense of time and feelings for old friends.
I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket,
bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.
I'll see you in the Fall.
On Ohio nights, you've got fireflies.
Out here, we've got some mountains?
Never load your words into your clip
'til the shells have all been counted.
City lights rain gold on midnight streets
and we can feel our way familiar through
these neighborhoods.
Our paragraphs are Kevlar.
Knocking down another round.
When the night sky tries to swallow
you, the late reports all sound
like we've got
rain all week.
It's rain all week.
I was so tired of parades.
I'm looking towards the Winter.
Know how that one ends.
It'll take me back to Sheridan,
bring
sense of time and memories of old friends.
I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket
bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.
I'll see you in the Fall.
Out West, we like our rifles.
Never pull your days out from the roots
'til the nights have all been ripened.
City lights are purpling blackened streets
and we can see our way to habits through
these neighborhoods...
Our sentences are carbines.
Order up a few more rounds.
I guess it's almost automatic
when the late reports all sound
like we've got
rain all week.
It's rain all week.
And you're so sick of parades.
You say you want a Summer.
One that never ends.
One that takes you back to Ashland,
brings you
sense of time and feelings for old friends.
I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket,
bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.
I'll see you in the Fall.
On Ohio nights, you've got fireflies.
Out here, we've got some mountains?
Never load your words into your clip
'til the shells have all been counted.
City lights rain gold on midnight streets
and we can feel our way familiar through
these neighborhoods.
Our paragraphs are Kevlar.
Knocking down another round.
When the night sky tries to swallow
you, the late reports all sound
like we've got
rain all week.
It's rain all week.
I was so tired of parades.
I'm looking towards the Winter.
Know how that one ends.
It'll take me back to Sheridan,
bring
sense of time and memories of old friends.
I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket
bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.
I'll see you in the Fall.
Monday, June 20, 2016
Collusions (Only Glob Can Budge Me)
Bills are scheming with a lightweight check
again.
Swear to God they must by
best of friends.
And now I'm sitting solo on my couch
again
with these 4 walls.
They've become parenthetic.
It's the same everywhere,
I know.
Same for my friends.
'Cuz the loan checks that we're writing won't
pay dividends.
We majored in Assumptions,
tossed our caps and
then
we found new meanings
for what's copasetic.
Now it's easy...
too damn easy...
So easy...
It's too easy.
To wander these same neighborhoods
and stay in tiny, shitty apartments
when the loose ends of your 20s tangle
and you're tied to where you've always been.
And I'll never ask for
FOR ANYONE'S HELP.
But I still can't take
CARE OF MYSELF.
So I'll
COOK MY DINNERS
ON THESE BURNING BILLS
and laugh my way to the bank
so they can repossess my smile.
Days keep blurring through to nightlight gleams,
I know
time is racing past but
thoughts are slowed.
And I'll be sitting pretty on my couch
alone
inside 4 walls
because habits are a home.
It's the same everywhere,
I know.
Same for us all.
Late nights and lame jokes we're making
push back walls.
We majored in Assumptions,
tossed our caps and
all
we found were new ways
to be pathetic.
But it's easy...
just too easy...
So easy...
It's too easy.
To stay in soured relationships,
stay still in tiny, shitty apartments
when the low points of your paychecks dangle
while you're trying to climb as high as rent.
And we couldn't be in
ANY WORSE HEALTH.
And we couldn't be less
FAIR TO OURSELVES
but we'll keep on keeping
like it's copasetic
And we'll never ask for
ANYONE'S HELP.
Though we still can't take
CARE OF OURSELVES.
So we'll
COOK PLATES OF CROW
ON OUR BURNING BILLS
and laugh our way downtown
where we can reassess our smiles.
again.
Swear to God they must by
best of friends.
And now I'm sitting solo on my couch
again
with these 4 walls.
They've become parenthetic.
It's the same everywhere,
I know.
Same for my friends.
'Cuz the loan checks that we're writing won't
pay dividends.
We majored in Assumptions,
tossed our caps and
then
we found new meanings
for what's copasetic.
Now it's easy...
too damn easy...
So easy...
It's too easy.
To wander these same neighborhoods
and stay in tiny, shitty apartments
when the loose ends of your 20s tangle
and you're tied to where you've always been.
And I'll never ask for
FOR ANYONE'S HELP.
But I still can't take
CARE OF MYSELF.
So I'll
COOK MY DINNERS
ON THESE BURNING BILLS
and laugh my way to the bank
so they can repossess my smile.
Days keep blurring through to nightlight gleams,
I know
time is racing past but
thoughts are slowed.
And I'll be sitting pretty on my couch
alone
inside 4 walls
because habits are a home.
It's the same everywhere,
I know.
Same for us all.
Late nights and lame jokes we're making
push back walls.
We majored in Assumptions,
tossed our caps and
all
we found were new ways
to be pathetic.
But it's easy...
just too easy...
So easy...
It's too easy.
To stay in soured relationships,
stay still in tiny, shitty apartments
when the low points of your paychecks dangle
while you're trying to climb as high as rent.
And we couldn't be in
ANY WORSE HEALTH.
And we couldn't be less
FAIR TO OURSELVES
but we'll keep on keeping
like it's copasetic
And we'll never ask for
ANYONE'S HELP.
Though we still can't take
CARE OF OURSELVES.
So we'll
COOK PLATES OF CROW
ON OUR BURNING BILLS
and laugh our way downtown
where we can reassess our smiles.
Origin Stories
You keep shaking at the branches
just like money grows on trees.
I been dealing in these cheap clichés
just like they'll help me leave someday.
And--easy! Easy! Easy.--
We can't let 'em hear us scheming
at the bottom of their hill
while their victories are streaming.
I can still remember days
when sane folks always laid bets on us.
With our mortarboards tilted all smart
and God left sorting filters,
we tilted, tipped all windmills
and we smoked through all opponents.
You'll tell me I once loved you.
I'll reply that, once, I could.
And we'll keep on telling stories
'til our voices clear the woods
and drift on up their hill
and through their windows
to their ears.
I'll tell you you were beautiful.
You were! I fucking swear!
So tell me I was beautiful
and that we can repair
this broken clumsy story
that fucked us all up and brought us here.
Up there atop their hill,
those thieving bastards sip their wine,
while below them, our white facepaint runs.
We plan ahead for better times.
I keep shaking at the branches
as if friendship grows on trees.
Just as though they might accept me,
when the dollars fall with Autumn leaves.
And you been dealing hard in hollow hopes
and flimsy dreams.
But I still think you're beautiful.
So tell me that I'm beautiful.
And then let's clip their flimsy wings.
Those motherfuckers 'crost the town
are eating shit and grinning.
Cackling,
orgasming,
while counting out their winnings.
But their music plays too loud
and soon their eardrums will be bleeding.
If they can't hear us breathing, babe,
they'll never hear us scheming.
just like money grows on trees.
I been dealing in these cheap clichés
just like they'll help me leave someday.
And--easy! Easy! Easy.--
We can't let 'em hear us scheming
at the bottom of their hill
while their victories are streaming.
I can still remember days
when sane folks always laid bets on us.
With our mortarboards tilted all smart
and God left sorting filters,
we tilted, tipped all windmills
and we smoked through all opponents.
You'll tell me I once loved you.
I'll reply that, once, I could.
And we'll keep on telling stories
'til our voices clear the woods
and drift on up their hill
and through their windows
to their ears.
I'll tell you you were beautiful.
You were! I fucking swear!
So tell me I was beautiful
and that we can repair
this broken clumsy story
that fucked us all up and brought us here.
Up there atop their hill,
those thieving bastards sip their wine,
while below them, our white facepaint runs.
We plan ahead for better times.
I keep shaking at the branches
as if friendship grows on trees.
Just as though they might accept me,
when the dollars fall with Autumn leaves.
And you been dealing hard in hollow hopes
and flimsy dreams.
But I still think you're beautiful.
So tell me that I'm beautiful.
And then let's clip their flimsy wings.
Those motherfuckers 'crost the town
are eating shit and grinning.
Cackling,
orgasming,
while counting out their winnings.
But their music plays too loud
and soon their eardrums will be bleeding.
If they can't hear us breathing, babe,
they'll never hear us scheming.
Friday, April 22, 2016
July in Missoula
A searing night. A price
tallied out and settled up.
I'm sipping down the size
of the smaller plights of times like these
in towns with bloodshot eyes.
Your coyote grin,
the gravel in
my creosote laughter were paving
the longest paths to saving graces
and filling up deaf ears.
I'm spilling every ounce
of all my guts
on your ears in the alley where I threw
up last year
when I disappeared from your birthday.
Your coyote grin,
eyes glistenin',
you laughed kinda quiet while walking.
Familiar paths. We're talking crazy
through bitter whiskey sneers.
But I think, this hot night,
I'm ready to believe...
Between the asphalt and the stars
Between the almost-fights
and rushing cars
Between the blurring downtown bars...
We'll find some common ground.
The town's lit up, we'll trickle down
to a point of least resistance
where we can bid farewell to arms.
Or I'll find my way back home
to 1130 Longstaff
where my walls can close me in.
tallied out and settled up.
I'm sipping down the size
of the smaller plights of times like these
in towns with bloodshot eyes.
Your coyote grin,
the gravel in
my creosote laughter were paving
the longest paths to saving graces
and filling up deaf ears.
I'm spilling every ounce
of all my guts
on your ears in the alley where I threw
up last year
when I disappeared from your birthday.
Your coyote grin,
eyes glistenin',
you laughed kinda quiet while walking.
Familiar paths. We're talking crazy
through bitter whiskey sneers.
But I think, this hot night,
I'm ready to believe...
Between the asphalt and the stars
Between the almost-fights
and rushing cars
Between the blurring downtown bars...
We'll find some common ground.
The town's lit up, we'll trickle down
to a point of least resistance
where we can bid farewell to arms.
Or I'll find my way back home
to 1130 Longstaff
where my walls can close me in.
Intro to Esperanto
Lines drawn.
Erasers
kept tucked in back pockets.
I'm circled. I'm shaded.
Smudged out,
separated.
You'll redraw the floorplan
schematics are changing
and I've
got the handbook.
regulations tossed out windward.
Wearing out
all the reasons for more sensible feelings.
The seasons change fast here,
I'm sure you'll be leaving again.
And you'll go
any place
that the latest squall takes you,
expecting I'm waiting.
But I've got blueprints of my own.
"Go anywhere you choose.
I won't care about the news."
The headline that I'm writing
and I wish that it were true.
So roll me up with the rest
of the shabby, used up trash.
Emptied cups and smoked-out butts.
All that's good has been unwrapped.
I'm cellophane.
Life spans.
Placeholders.
Not even a memory.
It's notched up. It's useless.
Refused
and ablated.
I'll toss out these blueprints.
Fuck all these schematics.
And you
wrote the last word
scrawled out in constructed language.
Wearing out
every patience for these senseless intentions.
I'm fenced off. You flatter
yourself and you're leaving again.
And I'll go
right back home
to my tiny apartment
where four walls await me.
But I still don't want you to leave...
...'cuz it's easy to believe
that you're beautiful beneath
these buzzy, dimming bar lights,
squinting through this hazy scene.
I've seen
this one before.
I know the script
like the way to my front door.
But, with constructed language,
our meaning will languish.
And I'll fade back to static.
Again.
Erasers
kept tucked in back pockets.
I'm circled. I'm shaded.
Smudged out,
separated.
You'll redraw the floorplan
schematics are changing
and I've
got the handbook.
regulations tossed out windward.
Wearing out
all the reasons for more sensible feelings.
The seasons change fast here,
I'm sure you'll be leaving again.
And you'll go
any place
that the latest squall takes you,
expecting I'm waiting.
But I've got blueprints of my own.
"Go anywhere you choose.
I won't care about the news."
The headline that I'm writing
and I wish that it were true.
So roll me up with the rest
of the shabby, used up trash.
Emptied cups and smoked-out butts.
All that's good has been unwrapped.
I'm cellophane.
Life spans.
Placeholders.
Not even a memory.
It's notched up. It's useless.
Refused
and ablated.
I'll toss out these blueprints.
Fuck all these schematics.
And you
wrote the last word
scrawled out in constructed language.
Wearing out
every patience for these senseless intentions.
I'm fenced off. You flatter
yourself and you're leaving again.
And I'll go
right back home
to my tiny apartment
where four walls await me.
But I still don't want you to leave...
...'cuz it's easy to believe
that you're beautiful beneath
these buzzy, dimming bar lights,
squinting through this hazy scene.
I've seen
this one before.
I know the script
like the way to my front door.
But, with constructed language,
our meaning will languish.
And I'll fade back to static.
Again.
Weather Vane
These punchlines unraveled on an Autumn morning.
My breath and my tension devoured the edges
of yellowed and dog-eared, trusted old pages.
This map's projections embracing me now.
Holding so tight. Pinned me down to the ground
described on the pages regurgitated.
Pin me tight to this town.
A flightless bird--I'm a rooster
bolted to your roofing;
follow each wind, but I'm never moving.
My phone woke me up on a cold Winter morning.
My uncle had died and they cancelled my flight.
It was only just me that missed out on his funeral.
And it's only just me singing "Midsummer Classic"
alone in this quiet and darkened apartment
"...Blue & Gold /
our city casts its shadow..." (Sundowner)
No albatross I, but a bird without flight all the same.
**
A small excerpt is sampled from the lyrics of the song "Midsummer Classic" by Chris "Sundowner" McCaughan.
Sundowner. "Midsummer Classic." Four One Five Two. Red Scare, 2007. Various Formats.
My breath and my tension devoured the edges
of yellowed and dog-eared, trusted old pages.
This map's projections embracing me now.
Holding so tight. Pinned me down to the ground
described on the pages regurgitated.
Pin me tight to this town.
A flightless bird--I'm a rooster
bolted to your roofing;
follow each wind, but I'm never moving.
My phone woke me up on a cold Winter morning.
My uncle had died and they cancelled my flight.
It was only just me that missed out on his funeral.
And it's only just me singing "Midsummer Classic"
alone in this quiet and darkened apartment
"...Blue & Gold /
our city casts its shadow..." (Sundowner)
No albatross I, but a bird without flight all the same.
**
A small excerpt is sampled from the lyrics of the song "Midsummer Classic" by Chris "Sundowner" McCaughan.
Sundowner. "Midsummer Classic." Four One Five Two. Red Scare, 2007. Various Formats.
Episode 19: The Result!
Ticking off the time
while the ticks and the flies
creep and crawl across my face,
burrow into my eyes.
And I think my swarming friends
are feeling hungry tonight.
So I guess it's only etiquette
for me to oblige.
When the fiddler's tune
starts to slow down and waver,
I cling tightly to youth.
But I ain't getting no braver.
And the steps to this dance
still feel foreign to me,
even if I know the words like a fish does
the stream.
Now this empty dance hall
is quickly filling up
with ghosts wearing tap shoes;
guess this jig is up. My cup runneth over
with tired clichés. And I'm knee deep in bullshit
but I ain't afraid.
Not afraid to be alone
not afraid to be alive.
Never been scared to die
or to ignore signs.
But I must be
scared of something...
Sunlight so bright
think I'm halfway blind.
Squinting through the days and
sacrificing all sight.
I'm still hanging with the bugs
while they scratch and they buzz
before I finally pinpoint just
what I have become.
Lay it down, black it out
while water sinks into ground.
Break it up, break me out
and we'll drive into town,
alright?
while the ticks and the flies
creep and crawl across my face,
burrow into my eyes.
And I think my swarming friends
are feeling hungry tonight.
So I guess it's only etiquette
for me to oblige.
When the fiddler's tune
starts to slow down and waver,
I cling tightly to youth.
But I ain't getting no braver.
And the steps to this dance
still feel foreign to me,
even if I know the words like a fish does
the stream.
Now this empty dance hall
is quickly filling up
with ghosts wearing tap shoes;
guess this jig is up. My cup runneth over
with tired clichés. And I'm knee deep in bullshit
but I ain't afraid.
Not afraid to be alone
not afraid to be alive.
Never been scared to die
or to ignore signs.
But I must be
scared of something...
Sunlight so bright
think I'm halfway blind.
Squinting through the days and
sacrificing all sight.
I'm still hanging with the bugs
while they scratch and they buzz
before I finally pinpoint just
what I have become.
Lay it down, black it out
while water sinks into ground.
Break it up, break me out
and we'll drive into town,
alright?
The Diner, The Liar, The Garbage Fire
Well you wanna go out dancing.
I don't wanna leave my pad.
I won't loosen up this necktie 'til my head falls in my lap.
Then you'd be lapping up my words
that are
curdled,
soured,
absurd,
purchased with inflated currency
and sold off for a herd
of sappy sentiments
for worn-out, bought-up malcontents.
Yeah, you're believing anything these days...
And I'm far too good a liar
selling real estate
on toxic, poisoned ground.
Filling in all of these forms
and putting dumpster fires out.
Standardized.
Attracting flies...
Follow darkened circles down...
To my parlor. Find me cutting up and dealing
out my cards
and doubling down on all the reasons
I've been feeding you.
Repeating 'til it's my turn
to start eating plates of crow.
Now you won't take any chances.
I'm a golem made of ash.
I won't fire up the big band. You won't come sit on my lap.
I've been dishing out these words
that are
used up
barren,
burned
far too long. The chafing dishes cooled
and all our vittles turned.
Buffet line sentiments
for naïve, hungry malcontents
starving to believe in anything these days.
Well you wanna go out dancing...
I'm not gonna leave my pad...
I don't wanna leave my pad.
I won't loosen up this necktie 'til my head falls in my lap.
Then you'd be lapping up my words
that are
curdled,
soured,
absurd,
purchased with inflated currency
and sold off for a herd
of sappy sentiments
for worn-out, bought-up malcontents.
Yeah, you're believing anything these days...
And I'm far too good a liar
selling real estate
on toxic, poisoned ground.
Filling in all of these forms
and putting dumpster fires out.
Standardized.
Attracting flies...
Follow darkened circles down...
To my parlor. Find me cutting up and dealing
out my cards
and doubling down on all the reasons
I've been feeding you.
Repeating 'til it's my turn
to start eating plates of crow.
Now you won't take any chances.
I'm a golem made of ash.
I won't fire up the big band. You won't come sit on my lap.
I've been dishing out these words
that are
used up
barren,
burned
far too long. The chafing dishes cooled
and all our vittles turned.
Buffet line sentiments
for naïve, hungry malcontents
starving to believe in anything these days.
Well you wanna go out dancing...
I'm not gonna leave my pad...
Grinding for XP
Who has the keys to this Wednesday night?
I wanna fucking drive, I'll take the exit
off I-90
and these bloodshot eyes
they won't slow me down
or catch up until bar time.
Greyscale cityscape--it's blurred out size
can dissemble time
and make a smudge out of our plights.
Not asking questions.
I won't need to lie
if I just keep quiet.
Not gonna slow
me down.
Not this time.
Door to the weekend has started creaking
and leaking light.
But my threshold's high
and we're not on foreign ground.
Dim reflection in your shouting eyes
calls for some more time
so it's one more round
and keep running for a place that's high.
Not gonna stop until these blurring lights
and my X'd out eyes
can make a streak out of my sight.
No further questions.
I don't mean to pry.
So I'll just keep quiet.
Deal is, you've gotta
hide
me tonight.
Let's pitch the keys to this Wednesday night
and ditch this beat-up ride. Let's make our exit.
Torch these bridges,
flee through rainy night.
They can't stop us now
or catch up until bar time.
I wanna fucking drive, I'll take the exit
off I-90
and these bloodshot eyes
they won't slow me down
or catch up until bar time.
Greyscale cityscape--it's blurred out size
can dissemble time
and make a smudge out of our plights.
Not asking questions.
I won't need to lie
if I just keep quiet.
Not gonna slow
me down.
Not this time.
Door to the weekend has started creaking
and leaking light.
But my threshold's high
and we're not on foreign ground.
Dim reflection in your shouting eyes
calls for some more time
so it's one more round
and keep running for a place that's high.
Not gonna stop until these blurring lights
and my X'd out eyes
can make a streak out of my sight.
No further questions.
I don't mean to pry.
So I'll just keep quiet.
Deal is, you've gotta
hide
me tonight.
Let's pitch the keys to this Wednesday night
and ditch this beat-up ride. Let's make our exit.
Torch these bridges,
flee through rainy night.
They can't stop us now
or catch up until bar time.
Calendar Year
I saw your breath race up
to join the smokestacks' sigh.
You'd cried the night before and I
had cursed the coming Summer,
'cuz I've always liked the cold.
You told me, someday, all of this
would be flattened out and bulldozed.
Paved and paved and painted 'til
the grey goes on for miles,
and they'll never know we stood here,
never know we'd sometimes smile--
true or falsely--
in the bitter Winter air.
I don't know about that.
I don't know if you're wrong or right.
All I've got for you are guesses
that all we ever had was time.
So, with the stopwatch spitting seconds
as the calendar frames lives,
realize it looks the same;
it hasn't changed--we never tried.
Sew these moments up.
A patch for one more year.
Won't "cheers" you--all that happened here
was a decade came unraveled,
now I stand by smokestacks, cold.
Told you once I liked the Winter.
It got searing hot and you walked
off and faded to a point.
But the pavement goes on for miles,
and they'd never guess we stood here,
never know the way we'd smile--
true or falsely--
in the bracing midnight air.
Now I don't know about you.
Can't tell if you were wrong or right.
But I will keep on guessing
all we had was a convenient lie.
Fill the hourglass with seconds
as the calendar frames lives.
No. Don't turn it on its head;
the moment's dead: we didn't try.
to join the smokestacks' sigh.
You'd cried the night before and I
had cursed the coming Summer,
'cuz I've always liked the cold.
You told me, someday, all of this
would be flattened out and bulldozed.
Paved and paved and painted 'til
the grey goes on for miles,
and they'll never know we stood here,
never know we'd sometimes smile--
true or falsely--
in the bitter Winter air.
I don't know about that.
I don't know if you're wrong or right.
All I've got for you are guesses
that all we ever had was time.
So, with the stopwatch spitting seconds
as the calendar frames lives,
realize it looks the same;
it hasn't changed--we never tried.
Sew these moments up.
A patch for one more year.
Won't "cheers" you--all that happened here
was a decade came unraveled,
now I stand by smokestacks, cold.
Told you once I liked the Winter.
It got searing hot and you walked
off and faded to a point.
But the pavement goes on for miles,
and they'd never guess we stood here,
never know the way we'd smile--
true or falsely--
in the bracing midnight air.
Now I don't know about you.
Can't tell if you were wrong or right.
But I will keep on guessing
all we had was a convenient lie.
Fill the hourglass with seconds
as the calendar frames lives.
No. Don't turn it on its head;
the moment's dead: we didn't try.
Atomic Clock
It's like coming back to an empty room,
filling blanks with my mind
while I look for you.
It's the half-life
of my memories
that betrays me now as I replay through each scene.
Holding the bag
of fast fading photos
and stumbling home alone past windows
that could've been ours.
Now I can't remember
my getaway plan.
That year's November
dropped me into cold;
arrested breaths
sold me out
3 years, still scared to death...
...that the time'll prove you right,
that no indictment ever left a man so blind.
I'll sit in the dark, then lie on the floor.
But Justice can see you've gone so
far on your own way
and that's just fine.
When this empty room echoes,
that sound is mine.
Trip through the doorway in domestic dark
in this sick span of space
where it echoes stark.
And it sounds wrong
to my puzzled ears.
Nothing fits in this vacant place without you here.
What good's a home
when it's all ghosts and regrets
and one lonely soul resisting egress?
These fumbling hours
spent searching for landmarks
that used to be here,
can't find them so far.
dropping into slow
arrested breaths
Won't go out
3 years, still scared to death...
...that my memory's decayed
that the best of me invested got mislaid.
I'll sit in this room, in the thick, empty dark.
And, now, I can see you've gone so
far on your own way
and that's just fine.
Now the silence here echoes;
I'm losing time.
filling blanks with my mind
while I look for you.
It's the half-life
of my memories
that betrays me now as I replay through each scene.
Holding the bag
of fast fading photos
and stumbling home alone past windows
that could've been ours.
Now I can't remember
my getaway plan.
That year's November
dropped me into cold;
arrested breaths
sold me out
3 years, still scared to death...
...that the time'll prove you right,
that no indictment ever left a man so blind.
I'll sit in the dark, then lie on the floor.
But Justice can see you've gone so
far on your own way
and that's just fine.
When this empty room echoes,
that sound is mine.
Trip through the doorway in domestic dark
in this sick span of space
where it echoes stark.
And it sounds wrong
to my puzzled ears.
Nothing fits in this vacant place without you here.
What good's a home
when it's all ghosts and regrets
and one lonely soul resisting egress?
These fumbling hours
spent searching for landmarks
that used to be here,
can't find them so far.
dropping into slow
arrested breaths
Won't go out
3 years, still scared to death...
...that my memory's decayed
that the best of me invested got mislaid.
I'll sit in this room, in the thick, empty dark.
And, now, I can see you've gone so
far on your own way
and that's just fine.
Now the silence here echoes;
I'm losing time.
Wyoming
It aches when I smile.
My State's a disaster.
Coal rollers, burnouts and days full of rapturous
laughter and "Red Face"
down in Lusk in the hot days
of Summer--it's boiling;
Winter winds burn up your face.
I first learned to hate
myself in a snowstorm
on Dow Street in Sheridan.
My best friends are the slow warmth
that spreads through the chest,
lifts a cold heart, grabs popcorn and pints
at the Blacktooth on hundreds of nights.
And 500,000 simple souls are a sight.
Still they're just half a million salty
drops in the ocean--
A quick squall of rain on the Bighorns.
They've opened the floodgates for fuckheads,
morons, bigots and rednecks
and rich, asshole ranchers thinking
everyone owes them.
And their dollars are deadpan
gallows jokes down in Cheyenne.
But I've seen cheap smiles 4 miles wide
out by Sundance.
And I've got good friends that I still carry with me
like the potent, sweet, earthy afterburn of good whiskey,
or the smell of the lodgepoles in the Spring
up in Story.
And it's still my home
even though it's so empty.
It's still my home
though it sometimes seems shitty.
That State's in my bones,
I don't think it'll leave me.
So please understand that some nights
when you find me,
you've stumbled across a small splinter
chipped off of Wyoming.
My State's a disaster.
Coal rollers, burnouts and days full of rapturous
laughter and "Red Face"
down in Lusk in the hot days
of Summer--it's boiling;
Winter winds burn up your face.
I first learned to hate
myself in a snowstorm
on Dow Street in Sheridan.
My best friends are the slow warmth
that spreads through the chest,
lifts a cold heart, grabs popcorn and pints
at the Blacktooth on hundreds of nights.
And 500,000 simple souls are a sight.
Still they're just half a million salty
drops in the ocean--
A quick squall of rain on the Bighorns.
They've opened the floodgates for fuckheads,
morons, bigots and rednecks
and rich, asshole ranchers thinking
everyone owes them.
And their dollars are deadpan
gallows jokes down in Cheyenne.
But I've seen cheap smiles 4 miles wide
out by Sundance.
And I've got good friends that I still carry with me
like the potent, sweet, earthy afterburn of good whiskey,
or the smell of the lodgepoles in the Spring
up in Story.
And it's still my home
even though it's so empty.
It's still my home
though it sometimes seems shitty.
That State's in my bones,
I don't think it'll leave me.
So please understand that some nights
when you find me,
you've stumbled across a small splinter
chipped off of Wyoming.
Monday, January 11, 2016
Episode 13: The Diagnosis!
Signed us up. One more round.
Stagger through another year
of attrition, searing heat and self-effacement.
When that black shit bubbles up
through every crevice in the ground,
we'll know our heroes finally died
down in the basement.
This city's getting small.
I've gotten mean, you're getting old.
But your cold feet won't save you
when you're dancing on those coals.
The verdict's been returned,
it seems they're moving to convict.
And I can't really blame them anymore.
Every Summer it gets hotter
than a crooked priest's Hell.
But we're shaking while we sweat
with too much time that's left to kill,
'cuz it's murder in the courtroom
when the judge cracks a joke.
But you've heard this fucking punchline before.
Here we go, one more time.
Keep it fluid, keep it light
as you're waltzing through these streets that aren't your friends now.
You've got so much love to give,
I won't say what I've done with mine.
But there's no such thing as rest
for weary, aging clowns.
Light me up, then play me out.
Stumble through another year
of attrition, mounting bills and self-debasement.
When that black shit bubbles up
through every crevice in the ground,
we'll know our heroes finally died
down in the basement.
Stagger through another year
of attrition, searing heat and self-effacement.
When that black shit bubbles up
through every crevice in the ground,
we'll know our heroes finally died
down in the basement.
This city's getting small.
I've gotten mean, you're getting old.
But your cold feet won't save you
when you're dancing on those coals.
The verdict's been returned,
it seems they're moving to convict.
And I can't really blame them anymore.
Every Summer it gets hotter
than a crooked priest's Hell.
But we're shaking while we sweat
with too much time that's left to kill,
'cuz it's murder in the courtroom
when the judge cracks a joke.
But you've heard this fucking punchline before.
Here we go, one more time.
Keep it fluid, keep it light
as you're waltzing through these streets that aren't your friends now.
You've got so much love to give,
I won't say what I've done with mine.
But there's no such thing as rest
for weary, aging clowns.
Light me up, then play me out.
Stumble through another year
of attrition, mounting bills and self-debasement.
When that black shit bubbles up
through every crevice in the ground,
we'll know our heroes finally died
down in the basement.
Teleplay
Day's last thoughts play
through the creases of my sleepy mind.
Questions pile like the flakes
on the sidewalks outside.
Square of purple light in my white wall,
painted night grey,
glimpse of snowfall--a buzzing, fuzzed-out
scrambled teleplay.
Through interference I'll slide
eventually
down into
dreaming.
and change the program.
For now, the channel remains right here.
The Winter flickers 'cross my face.
And that window's purple
square is a small piece
of a tired world just trying to fall asleep;
A single view of a wider picture
that covers miles. Bends lines into a face.
Impulses race through a fading mind.
Snow is piling deeper
on the bike path outside.
Retrace my steps as eye lids close
over distance
Still that square glows--a buzzing, fuzzed-out
scrambled episode.
Through interference I'll slide
eventually
down into
dreaming
behind the credits.
For now the channel remains right here.
Half-smile flickers 'cross my face.
A different place and some different ways
to transmit greetings across this space
and to broadcast all our withheld wishes
would be fine.
But tomorrow I'll wake up.
And these re-runs never stop.
And that window's purple
square is a small piece
of a tired world just trying to fall asleep;
A single snowy, interfered picture.
A half-formed question:
Are you watching this same thing?
through the creases of my sleepy mind.
Questions pile like the flakes
on the sidewalks outside.
Square of purple light in my white wall,
painted night grey,
glimpse of snowfall--a buzzing, fuzzed-out
scrambled teleplay.
Through interference I'll slide
eventually
down into
dreaming.
and change the program.
For now, the channel remains right here.
The Winter flickers 'cross my face.
And that window's purple
square is a small piece
of a tired world just trying to fall asleep;
A single view of a wider picture
that covers miles. Bends lines into a face.
Impulses race through a fading mind.
Snow is piling deeper
on the bike path outside.
Retrace my steps as eye lids close
over distance
Still that square glows--a buzzing, fuzzed-out
scrambled episode.
Through interference I'll slide
eventually
down into
dreaming
behind the credits.
For now the channel remains right here.
Half-smile flickers 'cross my face.
A different place and some different ways
to transmit greetings across this space
and to broadcast all our withheld wishes
would be fine.
But tomorrow I'll wake up.
And these re-runs never stop.
And that window's purple
square is a small piece
of a tired world just trying to fall asleep;
A single snowy, interfered picture.
A half-formed question:
Are you watching this same thing?
Martyr On the High Seas!
A swarm of angry gulls
is whirling overhead.
Our breaths both reek of rum.
And there's a fire on the deck.
Baby, grab what you can while the grabbing's good.
We misread all the maps and we misunderstood
the pulling of the currents in our poison blood.
So we'll split up
the spoils in the hold.
Yeah, then we'll send this fucker below.
I'm laughing in the rain,
drinking in the Crow's Nest.
You're inhaling all the smoke
from the flames down on the deck.
You're crying in the wind.
I'm leaping in the drink.
You're tangled in the rigging.
The ship's begun to sink.
You're always pissed. I'm sick
of your shit.
So let's raid this leaky schooner,
then we'll scuttle it.
Baby, grab what you can while the grabbing's up.
We fucked up reading stars and the compass now.
Avowed we'd only drift until the tide went out.
But we're lost and favored winds ain't enough.
Buddy, grab what you can while the grabbing's good.
We misread all the maps and we misunderstood
the torrents and the waves in our raging blood.
So let's split up
all the plunder in the hold.
And then we'll send this fucker below.
is whirling overhead.
Our breaths both reek of rum.
And there's a fire on the deck.
Baby, grab what you can while the grabbing's good.
We misread all the maps and we misunderstood
the pulling of the currents in our poison blood.
So we'll split up
the spoils in the hold.
Yeah, then we'll send this fucker below.
I'm laughing in the rain,
drinking in the Crow's Nest.
You're inhaling all the smoke
from the flames down on the deck.
You're crying in the wind.
I'm leaping in the drink.
You're tangled in the rigging.
The ship's begun to sink.
You're always pissed. I'm sick
of your shit.
So let's raid this leaky schooner,
then we'll scuttle it.
Baby, grab what you can while the grabbing's up.
We fucked up reading stars and the compass now.
Avowed we'd only drift until the tide went out.
But we're lost and favored winds ain't enough.
Buddy, grab what you can while the grabbing's good.
We misread all the maps and we misunderstood
the torrents and the waves in our raging blood.
So let's split up
all the plunder in the hold.
And then we'll send this fucker below.