Past-Date

Wallpaper curling up
Sounds starting spilling out
Door's flung open
Cold-burnt face still hoping

Turn the
Page on another shot
Chest may be thawing out
Door's half-open
But the chapter's closing

          Look and see my space
          Still half-full
          But I'm sitting on the shelf
          Half-
               turn to view my tag
          Plain to read
          Expired two Julys ago

Tongue-tied with shoes unlaced
I'll try to keep my faith
Bottled and frozen
Behind windows fogging

One cup cheap hot coffee
Bones melt, pour out of me
Stuck, still hoping
Frostbit and laid open

          Sit and take up space
          Emptied out
          Full of questions and thin air
          Look
               down to read my tag
          Peeled off
          Expired two Julys ago.

Ghosts, Beasts and Bones

     Commuting with the spectres
creeping out of exhaust pipes
     Tracing lines
     and framing sighs
     as sun creeps slow
        past the horizon

Cells in veins.

Impulses on pathways.

Nervous?

A heart pumps inside a creature
     and thanks its enablers silently.
Vocally demanding
          continued traffic

     Constructing a cadence
with keystrokes and clock-ins.
     Trading ticks on second hands
     for pennies and plans
    as sun walks frustrated
       back toward horizon

Ossify

Framework, spaces, marrow.

Tired?

The form supports itself--its own weight
     and thanks the builders inwardly
Outwardly grinding
                     the stuff of bone.

Somnambulist

Never enough sleep
But I've got sleep in my eyes
     All the time
And I'm walking; left-right-left
          turned on my head
          and stepping blind

And I get swallowed by the night
          sometimes,
when "then" and "now" start blurring lines
and daylight looks the same as
                           star-flecked skies--
          when I forget what day it is
          and daydreams swim in wine.

I know I'll clean my plate,
     but when it's time to push in chairs?
...?

I remember age 16
     like it was yesterday
--A yesterday from a decade ago--
                     I'm growing old

But I'm the same way, now
     cold hands
     quaking knees
On shaky ground
     each night
with less to lose
more to gain
whispering "please"
     on frosted breath to no one.

Then again, some nights...

Don't feel so alone at all.
     --Though I get swallowed
                      by the night--
     --Though I got sleep in
                      my eyes--
     --All the time--
    --Sometimes--
A decade's like one minute

So Lewis, Marion,
     Dow and Highland,
Streets like lines
          in chapters of old books
(Delphi, Red Fox, North Heights,
              Burkitt, Brooks)
Look just like sweating summers,
             shivering winters,
Falls and Springs
           piling up between the pages
         Don't like the view from on the shelf.

Ahead of Closures

Drops to flakes
        show the wind howls sideways
Missed my exit so mile-markers
        try to tell the tale
            --not too loud--
          I've listened
                   to the wipers' march
For 3 hours--interested
                     in just one thing...
--Not where I'm headed
--Which road I'm on
--"Is my tank dry?" or cold coffee in foam cups.

It's more a question of...
--"Are my lungs full?"
--"Is my head clear?"
Liver's ready
I can stomach one more night.

My head aches
            from the glaring headlights
Dim my brights and adjust the defrost
           feel the year bleed in
               to my bones
           I'm listening
                 to flakes on windshield
Still 3 hours more 'til sleep
                         that's just one thing...
That must be lacking
This road I'm on
Plays its hand--rest ain't in the cards tonight

Is it a matter of...
       cooling convictions?
       freezing weather?
       emtpy tank or
                   getting snowed on every night?

Slide to a halt...
           on the shoulder
           hit my hazards
           it's December
                 and it's 10 o'clock at night

Make it home
And I'll toss one back
Drop it down
To bring sirens back--
They'll sing their songs
And I'll swallow facts

Make it home
And I'll toss my map
Into the wind
Put my keyring back
Onto the peg
Where it's always sat--
         I know I'll leave.
         I can tell I'll leave again.

Patchworked. Piecemealed. Worn on Sleeves

     tellers, accountants
     shopowners go
as the streetdoors close
and the months grow cold.
     the daily grind was set on
           real fine
and the year grew old
                                 right before my eyes
           and that's fine.

            i kinda blew up
            a few nights back
but there's white on black--
i've survived attacks
that were worse than that
and though i know we've been feeling
                 cold
still we've got strong backs
              that's what i am told.

So, late at night when our breaths are seen,
          no more feeling mean
          no more blind, obscene
                           scenes rehearsed.

Let the doors come unlocked
     And the meter break
     Far too much at stake
     To stay pinned or lost
     Or waste time

Shops close in summer
And commutes in winter's no worse.

"The days grow shorter
'Til they grow warmer--
          Then they wax stronger,
So just wait longer
          And GET FINISHED
         WEARING BLANKETS OF ICE,
     You're a damn good kid
     So remember it
     And go live."

              Now.

'Cause a patchwork heart is sewn on this sleeve
     And it's got some dents
     From some accidents.
     But, you know, it's immense
     And it's sewn there for the
                               World to see.

The Expatriate Saints

Take time...    
Try to stay awake
And maybe...
     We'll repatriate
Then when we find...
          a trail that we can take,
          we'll make our way
          back home across broken gold lines.

Now, I'll time...
     the minutes of the days
But still we'll...
     Talk 'til the skies turn grey
Of stark, sharp lights...
          that hack the clouds and say
          all of the ways
          to lay in our graves or evolve.

The night stays still,
     while the wind howls
     and the snowflakes
     melt to frozen
     whitewashed walls
             cover the map.

So I'll sit still
     while the lines blur
     and the ink bleeds--
     feel the rumbling
     icy road
          because we are--

--One tight tug on the collar of my coat
One last shot to thaw words froze in my throat
          I'll need no lies to get through this one.

Us kids we sit and share the warm
Out here in Western winter storms
          Press on, we'll make it fine through this one.

Get home to bed and I shove some things aside
then sleep sound beside Swiss Army knife,
shirts pants and a couple unpaid bills...
It's a cluttered sleep, I know. But still...

Slow breaths on my frosted window panes
We'll recap hours after I awake
     but still,
     but still,
We are the Expatriate Saints.

Another Brand of Global Hunger (Hallogen Pinpoints)

Towers tipped in neon lights
  Heroine sparkles in frigid night.
Smokestacks? Or syringes
     piercing flesh and vein with binges
               forced into unwilling blood.

Belching smoke from Western fields,
I can't shake--they look like needles
Pinning life flayed for display

Maybe it's just me
Or maybe it's the night
But I swear they look like spit-poles
      You could almost feel it writhe
       if it weren't for the sleeping
       induced by frostbit weeping
       you could feel its shuddering writhes

If these aren't pins or dirty needles,
   do you think they might be teeth?
Because veins are running dry
   --Who says vampires aren't real?

'Cause we see the living consequence--
     paradigm bathed in red.
And, you see, the way we're living,
     means we're all the living dead.

Cartography

There was talk of exploring
                         empty lots
                 until the sun came up
And laying dotted lines
                         on empty maps until
                  We found ourselves new homes
With softer beds and warmer sheets

Make it as far as frozen streets--
       decide to paint it black
                         when
             We've run out of red
          Our hands are getting chapped
                         and

We've been running ourselves dry
Out here beneath polished winter skies
Then right before
          our hazy, X'd out eyes
Come falling
           snowflakes from the clear
Think they must be the
           first five of the year
And lately, I swear all we get 'round here
Are busted plans and second tries

The chips are falling
    so let's cash our winnings
out and sup on underpinnings found
as tacit answers start to drift

As tacit answers start to drift
     the question's seeding up
     the frozen ground

And rougher textures make for traction
       so I'll get a grip and count
out snowburnt seconds
     'til we find the map to another
      point of black.

Fermenting Story

Give the night two glowing eyes
     The ashes spilling on your lap
And blue goes grey
And stories
        stay
clamped tight behind
       your pursed and frozen lips

Back alley ways through black
                          and lighter greys
We'll bend our steps up northward
     past the frosted window panes
and swallow stories whole

Winter's on its howling way
     We're making up and think we're on the mend
(How are you making out,
     My stony, ash-faced friend?)
'Cause I been lying under
                    aching, heavy skies
And now I'm chewing on another sad story

The year's ragged breaths
              now begin to freeze
I gotta level with you:
--Speaking honestly--
The silence feels just like a fight.

"We could skate down frozen streets."
     You say to me and I keep
          seeking half-lived heat
Pretend to listen
          and I'm streaking through
                                'til Spring
Don't want another season's empty lies.

"I'm fucking sick of this place
     it's always, always only
     filling empty space--
but we keep living here.
     And I know that we're still
     just way too damn young to die."

Winter just arrived today
     You're breaking up and I don't think you're on the mend
How are you taking the
                muddy, snowy end

                  that never ends? And, brother,
                            winter skies fall slow.
Time to spit out every fermenting story

The year's rattled breaths
           froze and, now, they're ceased.
Let's take another shot for the deceased and face the fact that
we are all marked and diseased,
At least that's what I've seen 'til now.

That's all I've seen 'til now.

'Til now.

Prologue and Preamble

Tumbling down and catching up
     while cashing in and clocking out,
We can fall behind together
     and forget to get ahead

So give your horse his head
Cover my back--I'll lend a hand.
And, though I may have 2 left feet,
     on my 2 legs I can stand

So I'll grant an extra ince
If I can follow you a mile.

'Cause through a million faces frowning,
I can always find your smile

And I know that while I'm laughing,
I won't have to see you cry

Though you may try to take the low road,
I'll keep calling from the high.

So we can wear it, if the shoe fits--
We have tried on many hats.
And we'll never mind the turncoats
     stealing shirts off of our backs.

I'd buy them for a dollar,
     but a penny for your thoughts--
You tell me, "Money can't buy happiness,
          which I've already got."

Shakefrost

I understand the Autumn,
     moving slow through crackling air,
and cracking ice off of frustrations
standing shake-kneed under cares
          ...and wool caps

And I get the lamentations--
--Summer leaves
and years start sleeping
Fourteen minutes walking hunched up
     in the sweatshirts we are steeped in

But I don't get rescinded handshakes--
     I don't get the budding frowns
     which--like multi-colored leaves--
     begin to blanket on the ground
          ...those don't crunch quite so
          nicely 'neath my feet.

I get the turn of seasons--
understand slowing of streams
and kicking self for counting up the
slights we've only dreamed
           ...but...

Now, I understand vacations
     that one takes
rather than lashing
at the cause of their frustrations
     when staying away sounds smashing...
      ...and yet...
     ...they don't come back sometimes.
     ...so...

I don't understand these hearts
     or why I try to get inside.
But I understand locked fences
     and I know the cold outside.

Another Midwest Winter

7:05, it's late September
     and mid-continent can't decide
     on a season
     if it's Summer, Winter
     or some patchwork in between
     but I've
Decided
   Fall on confusion's
not the same as hitting Springy grass
because I've seen

   How hard December
   clamps its jaws
on those Midwest city streets
   --With famished eyes
      and with breath howling
      tries to find ways into me

So, clothed in shivers, one might stumble
   Between bars, snowflakes, and friends

And cloudy skies and clouded glasses
  tell you, "you'll never be young again!"

11:30, Minneapolis--
     you're sure your ride is late.
Trudge through snow, and mud and asphalt
while skies thicken purple-grey.

And things are much the same in Bismarck
And much the
      same in Winnipeg.
Thrusting frigid hands in pockets
   restore some blood to aching legs.

"And it's another Midwest winter."
  What more is there to say?

Respond to yourself and keep walking
Still miles away from home
Still a decade until morning
Another New Year's spent alone
    --and growing old--

Now you remember last September--
It was still 80 degrees!
Now you're caught in Midwest winters--
Release a breath and watch thoughts freeze.

So just wait until next Summer
Your floor heater warms your toes
And it's wait until the next drink
to thraw your throat out: so it goes.

So it goes...

And goes and goes.

But you'll never be young again.

Preamble

Comes before the walk...
Or maybe a walk that comes before...
Whatever it may be, it's ambulatory
     Thoughts after before-thoughts
             (not afterthoughts, mind you)
Are not preamble
     but, then again, nothing's at stake with those, either.

At least, not as much;
     they are taken as givens
     whether discounted or trusted
     reviled or loved
     It's acknowledged as "is."

Not so with the Preamble,
Not so with the Before-Walk-Thoughts.

Routine

It seems like finally at last
     it's gotten to the point I knew it would
I'm singing sad songs just for laughs.

And if it's half past time to just relax
     then I'll find myself looking for an empty hole
Unfold the map and circle relapse

I've got some time to waste,
Some empty space,
Some folks I hardly trust.
So, cell by cell, I'll move through
     this zip code grid
So long point A, point B or bust.

(I know) somehow the city smells tonight
It's funny, but I can't decide--
  it's sharpie pens or pesticide
     or fire on mountain pines.

Across the bridge, I see our ghosts,
     2002 on Dow Street.
Two years before the Fire of '04
     burnt mean for 3 years
     and numbered us among its casualties.
Good thing they can't see me...

I don't think that I'm on the first or last
     full-seated, sweat-reeking passenger car,
I'm in the middle of the train
     I'm a stow-away
     No window seat, here
     that's a fact.

In the middle car
It's never far
     to nowhere's gleaming teeth.
Front car's futures. Caboose is past.
     Center's going
Nowhere. Points A and B are just
  the bookends on the shelf
  and here I am, collecting dust.

And how this city sleeps tonight
Depends on the insecticide--
     how much they spray into the night
       and if I wanna stay inside.

Something in the Bushes

What's this funny feeling that I always get,
     after dark when I'm out in my yard?
It raises all the hairs on my goosebumped neck
And my hands'll start to shaking hard.

I think I got a lump down inside my throat
And I kinda wanna pee my pants.
When I hear a strange noise
     going rustle in the bushes,
(I) just can't help but cast a look askance

Well there's something...
     with 2 glowing eyes
Yeah there's something...
     stalking me outside
There's something...
     and I dunno what
But there's something in the bushes
     and I wanna run

Whatever this thing is, it ain't got me yet
     I'm losing hope though I keep running hard
I swear that I can feel it drooling on my neck
I never should've gone out after dark.

My legs begin to tire and I'm outta breath
Though I try, I think I'm slowing down
Now I hear quick footsteps
     closing in--they're right behind me,
It's a signal calling out my death.

Well there's something...
     with 2 glowing eyes
Yeah there's something...
     stalking me outside
There's something...
     and I dunno what
But there's something in the bushes
     and I wanna run

Standing on Bridges

I've got a friend who said to me
     one night sometime near dawn,
"I used to like some people here,
     but most of them have gone.
They've packed their bags and left this place
While I just linger on
          and so
          I wonder
          how much longer
They'll pretend to maintain bonds."

I answered him right quick and said,
     "My friend, that's all they got--
A couple fake connections and
     some distant place to rot."
"That's right, I guess," he said and turned
     away, no longer talked
          until
          he told me
          how much changing
Times had left him feeling lost.

He said, "We're left behind
They've moved ahead
And I'm just learning now--
If you're content to stand on bridges,
     growing up means burning down."

He turned his head one side
          and said
     to me and wore a frown,
     "If you're content to stand on bridges,
          growing up is burning down."

So let's pack our bags,
We'll fill this tank and leave this fucking town.
Not content with destroyed bridges,
          we might tear it to the ground.

Role Playing Game

You're the boy with sunburnt eyelids
With his patience wearing thin.
You're the jerk with good intentions
And you've got a thicker skin
     thicker skin than last time and
     you've got a chance to win.

She's the time of day she never gave
She's half past 9 at night.
She believes in proper fairness,
But she's unwilling to fight
     fight and argue with her conscience
     for the sake of "half-way right."

I'm the note you left unfinished
Under lazy, clicked-off pen.
I suppose I'll wait for later
To finish saying what needs said.
     "What needs said," read sunburnt eyes,
     "is, half past 9, I should be back again."

Drunk Dial

Dial "D" for drinking, delving
     deep into the night
Something sough in speech and thought
     between these cloudy pints
Early springtime midnights come to
     mind; they're just like this one
Pensive breezes
     And brains buzzing, spinning
At 33 rotations every minutes in my kitchen.

You've dialled "S," you're seated
     at the bottom of a hole
Seated just where I was sitting
     back when I was just that old.
You think you're drawn and quartered
     (well, you're clearly being pulled)
Ablutions aren't easy
     But I know they're necessary
In these sorts of situations if you really want relief

So, dialing "L" for late nights, losing
     sleep beneath the porch light
You can linger on your litanies,
     mop your words out of your mouth
Until they pile up on the floor.
Then you can find your way and wade out
     or just sit and soak them up.

So it's dial "C" for chugging coffee
Building coffins, catching colds.
For cogitating childish thoughts,
For ceding sleep while growing old.

"Enough"

Not swimming
Not sinking
It's enough to stay afloat--to
     stay topside the salty ocean
     of our briny, swelling times.

And it's enough to draw this one
And just wait to draw the next
When we're speaking of the drawing
     of just one more ghostly breath.

Not fighting back,
Not losing.
It's enough to just stand up--to
     stay upright and stagger back
     into the aching, blinding fray.

Enough, for now, to weather blows
And wait 'til you can throw your own
When we're speaking of just staying
     in the fight 'til it should end.

No thriving, no, nor dying.
Only striving to exist
There's no shame in just surviving
When that's all the room there is.

Watered Down Ideals

What's missing, this week
     from your calendar of compromise?

It is lukewarm discussion
or was it watered down ideals?

Under fractured concentration
and sunburnt by attention,
Do you finally abandon the excuse of
                                 "best intentions?"

From a point
On a line
     (of sheepish half-admission)
Almost imagine you can see the whole figure
          Good show, Pythagorus--
Cut your losses.
Take your B-minus and run
    back into the familiar arms
    of your C-average effort.

As your excuses echo loud off every wall,
does it frighten you?--like a room
          empty of targets does the gunman?

Introspection on the rocks--
         an acquired taste, sure.
But, diluted too much, one surely
     Has to wonder, "why bother?".

Weakened past intention--
Or even recognition--
As you are.

Scattered Musing

It was Spring and
I broke out...

     You stayed (but kinda left)
and somewhere in between we found
ourselves.

And amidst emerging problems
     we'd just drink 'til 2 or 3
And in the middle we might meet

          with some kind of understanding
or perhaps an emptied cup

     And if I'm dead
     by tomorrow
     I just hope I meant
          something

          To some kid
          where I was
     back when I was still his age

*******

And if my father isn't like me, I still think he might be proud
     of bloody knuckles
     and fierce smiles on the face of his lone son.

The Only Hope of Placeholders

He had several ways to leave
And 10 reasons to
But reasons he wasn't sure were the right ones
For right now he spins in circles
And ingests her dark tattoos
And--encircling well-worn mottos--
     he'll stay trapped inside a mode
     with steel teeth
     and iron grip; this boy with broken
legs and looping words

She had several reason to change
And many methods to
Methods she didn't think were convenient.
Convened with her worst tendencies,
She still tends her worsening state.
With a water can of silence
     and a mulch of muffled malice,
     jaw wired in place
     and aligned with sharpened words she goes;
this girl on treadmill tracks

With 20-some-odd years
And--let's say--11 friends
Are you drenched or dry or drowning?
Or perhaps you're safe on shore.
I suspect you can't interpret--
     it's way past way too much
     growing late
     the nights are leading.
     But it's a marathon race...

There were countless rainy days.
And countless more without it.
Still, your pictures are just paint
Until you see them from a distance.
Those insistant strokes are broad--
And they'll persist after you're gone.
     So try to take it easy
     When the scale's a little grey.

Sunday, Crummy Sunday (No Appetite)

You were feeling way too tired
for another tired song about
     another god damn girl
     you met a thousand times before

Absent a seat to meet your feet
with streets so damn familiar
you already taste their gravel

And it's grin to gray sky's purple
Under orange street corner lights
     time again for sore shins
     like a hundred nights before

So lend an ear when ghosts appear
with faces so familiar
you forget even moving

And it's another sopping sad song
on a rain-soaked Sunday night.
You strike the bell by City Hall
And run like Hell
     Tonight
It's maybe just enough
To paint the town in white
     then, when daylight comes
    --with shoulders shrugged--
      regain your appetite.

Some tried to feed you fool's broth
But you choked on the red herring and
     if tired eyes were banknotes,
     then your face would be Berlitz

But even with your spluttering
through wet streets past bars shutting
You think you're onto something
As you cross the 5th Street bridge.

It was another sodden sad song
on a rain-soaked Sunday night.
Turn down that darkened alleyway
And run til day--
It's maybe just enough
To paint the town all grey.
     As daylight comes,
     Your shoulders shrug
     You've got no appetite.

Midnight Snack

The favorite sons and favored daughters
who dwell on Ossuary Hill
each night awake and they are jealous--
     Envy keeps from sleeping well.
Until their locked and fenced-in village
     lets them forth
     night breeze to smell

No caddies line this cul-de-sac
No Lexus, Prius, or SUV.
A different sort of folk inhabit
     this gated community...

These honored folk--elites, I guess--
Feel hunger, too, as well as envy
Now, late at night, they seek a snack
Not pastrami, chips, or chili

An unexpected visit, then,
they'll pay to poor folks down below.
These, deep in sleep, are eas'ly caught
Though the hill folks may be slow

They'll slake their hunger
     --and their envy--
In this way, the shambling squad:
Creeping quiet into the village,
Decayed and claw-clad feet unshod.

The valley folk, so poorly off
Are quiet and simple--a working bunch
Though now and then, they will tell tales
Over coffee, beer, or lunch.

They always have, it seems, resented
     the snobbish wealth-hounds on the hill
And yet, these days, it's gotten worse--
     They live in fear with spines all chilled

For some dark nights, when they wake hungry,
     Somnambulists from up the Hill
Creep into town down in the valley
And make a sleeping, screamless kill...

Denudist

The sidewalks are his necktie
      --Sometimes--
--others--they're his belt.
And, though he clothes himself
    in his concrete surroundings,
He's often left feeling naked on his own front lawn.

This man enjoys your fellowship, true
But his solitude is Au Jus,
   and he likes to soak his sandwich, that's all.

Hollywood Wyomingite

Every time he leaves his house
he does his bolo tie just right
And he'll be drinking gin and sipping wine
And talking finances all night.
Then when he's
          Done
He'll hop into his Silverado and drive home
to his mansion in the mountains
Where he's gonna pass out cold

And he'll wake up in the afternoon
     and do it all again.
'Cause it's the pricey, practiced habit
of his investor-cowboy friends

Hollywood Wyomingite
I think your Stetson's on too tight.
When are
you gonna stop trying so damn hard
To win your country, cowboy brownie points?
               Now quit it.

Any time that you might ask
he'll say he don't like "Mexicans."
But he can spare them fifty dollars if
they'll mow his lawn and trim his hedge
And when he
          Fights
With his wife he'll buy a brand new SUV
For her to drive so she'll shut up
For rich men, peace don't come cheap.

Then he'll wake up the next morning and
     go through it all again
Know he hates his damn reflection
So he yells at his spoiled kids

Hollywood Wyomingite
Invest your cowboy bucks just right
When are
you gonna stop trying so damn hard
To fit that fucking plastic prototype?
          Now quit it.

And he sleeps sound every night inside
his million dollar home
He's got the archetype down just right
But he knows he is all alone

Hollywood Wyomingite,
I think your Stetson's on too tight,

That's right,
You got the Stetson on too tight,

I said
Your stupid hat's on too damn tight

So quit it...

Crawler

The ceiling sucks you in
And the rafters wrap around
     and devour
While the daylight outside
          begins to doze.
The corners of the room
Start to accuse with silent
phrases which they toss into your mouth.

          Time to walk to the next one
          Alone.
          Single minded but softly, bluntly so.
Time to dare the world to judge you
'Cause you're forgetting; "frogs will jump...
          by request or no."

Time to stumble to the next one
     Bile summoned to your throat
Doors open and inhale you
As you think about your breathing
Far too hard and carefully.

Half heard conversations start to wrap around your neck

     Time to loosen the belt
          around your waist.

You step out for some air.
They're smoking--fancy that.

Time to fall into the next one
     When you belch it tastes like soap.
The floor springs toward the ceiling
     Drop a dollar in the cuss jar,
                                potty mouth...
And cinch your hat down tighter
     Like you hope it eats your head.

Conversations yank you to the motherfucking floor
And the rafters chew you up
          and spit what's left into your hungry hat.
The corners are done with you...
...so it's time...

So I'd like to see you try and crawl home.

Yeah, I Listened

I listened when they told me--
     "None of this has consequence"
And I listened when they said
     "Son, ideals won't keep you warm."
And I listened, yeah, I listened
     to, "Just worry about your plate."

I listened well.
I listened well.

I listened well to advice
Which struck me pragmatic and sound
I heeded when they told me
     "Feet are safer on the ground"
I listened--closely listened
Seems I'm listening even now.

I listened when they told me,
     "Kiddo, miracles are dead.
It's only grass and sky and clouds and sun--
Live your days out in yoru head."

I listened then
I sit here, now.

Always depleting
Never filling

And I wonder...

I heard them when they taught me--
     Nothing matters but your lot
And listened as these lessons
Opened wounds that wouldn't clot
          within
     the bodies of all hopes
And doused the energies of
          hearts around the species

And, now, I wonder
still, inert here; leering at the wall

I wonder...
"I've listened so damn well,
     can I still wonder at all?"

Quoted Price

Gulping down 6 cups of coffee
On a 4 hour drive
And it's a guzzled tank of gasoline;
A quoted price on time
                spent
To whip a froth on memories
And put your thoughts on ice

               "Man,
It's larger drinks and longer lines
Of yellow painted warning signs,"
              I said while running empty
As you coasted in on fumes

"Nah you see it's just the finish line's
An unexploded, aging mine
And we don't have a map.
              Shit."

Guzzling down a cup of coffee
And another tank of gasoline
A quoted price on time spent
Says, "Buddy, time ain't cheap."
             Shit.

Horizon Outruns

A silent man sits encircled--
     embraced by summer storms' arms.
And all alone he ages
Seething soft beneath the sample size

The size of smallness grows tense
And waxing tension swells against the wall
     And there--at the center--
   storm sprayed and stretched too thin
   a few too many times for reformation
Our silent man sings quiet
While his will and wallet bleed--
          still freshly somehow.

Accelerate and amplify--
Caught and swept along on currents
that so often outstrip the soundest plans
...a treasure lies at bare arms' reach
but only mind might stretch
when arms, encircled by storms
   (that always do overtake)
Can only reach down to clamp his knocking knees

Beside the bed
his dapper, ever-present devil dabs
     his always bead-soaked brow,
     each night keeping venomous vigil...

A silent man sits encircled
Entangled in summer storms' arms
Which, as always, overtook him.
And, by the way, he wonders indeed
if he just didn't run rapidly enough.
Yet all alone he ages--
--overpowered and pinned
   by the smallness of the sample size...