The Last Weekend

Take my hand,
we'll fuse our last
                    few folding dollars together,
and we'll walk our snowbound streets
               and try to fend off the cold.
Find a place that's too familiar,
shivering hands on the door.
               Halfway laughing.
                   Half a cough
     as we protest we're still not old.

Break the skin,
I'll break the silence.
               Sigh
and watch our breaths ascend
          the frigid night.
Tell me, "Show me something beautiful
                    or let me leave the light."

Now, fill me up. Just sing that tune.
Two songs of piling rust.
                    I love
          the way you croon.
I'm just a walking ghost.
But what does that make you?
           Red-faced or blue?
           Two-faced or true?
               Do you stay?
             Or cry, "Adieu!"?

Strike the band,
they'll play the last
                    few notes of that "Civil Twilight."
and we'll speak our foolproof plans
               and try to forget the cold.
'Til you say, "That's too familiar."
Make your way to the door.
               Half a laugh.
             caught in throat
    I hope they'll draw out that last note.

Break the skin,
you kill the silence,
                    laugh-
-ing with descending face
               and frozen eyes,
saying, "Show me something beautiful
                  and let me leave the light."

September 25

Was Monday when some somebody said
someone else had some trouble
               sticking out their neck.
You had a thing to get off of your chest
sent home walking alone, just as I suspected.

Had ears full of the tallest tales.
Sails deflated, drunk and jaded
               spitting coffin nails.
From my seat on this dusty city bus
I can see a whole kingdom made of ash and rust.

               ...everything the bullshit touches...

Was Springtime when some somebody claimed
that they loved a certain someone--
               "didn't wanna leave."
4 months later, you were taking your leave.
"We'll stay friends on social media--
                         I didn't delete you."

My gut's full of tales like this one.
Drunk and fading, still just wading
               through the deepest ones.
Take my seat on this city bus,
Let this heart burn out and smolder down to ash and dust.

               ...All the things your friendship touches...

Dirty basements, then sidewalks under stars.
Zip these footfalls up to closure
     Closing down the bars.
Outta lies? You're outta time.
               And, so far,
that's all you gave and I'm the fish
               who swallows that hard hook.

In the end, I guess that we'll be fine.
finding distance, finding form among the solid lines.
End-of-day, the only way out is time.
               Guess you've got yours.
                    And I've got mine.

You've got yours.
And I've got mine.

Wind Chill

Celsius to Fahrenheit
they took each other's measure.
While you walked half the distance,
I got lost along the way.
I succumbed to fucking frostbite--
it was not a point of pleasure.
Meet me at minus 40
if you've got a thing to say.

Hang icicles from buildings.
Hang a frown on one long face.
Hung my hat on losing hands
                                            we'll
hang up halfway through this call
and I'll directly start to hate this place.
Heap reasons on these question marks.
Hot coffee, honey cruller.
Split the check, we'll split the difference--
               Celsius to Fahrenheit
       I fought through the conversion

Then I fought my way into a much worse place.

Ecclesiast

I think I'm fine with
          kickin' over church pews
desperate to find where my rituals hide.
Ghost stories never taught me nothin' but runnin'
               and hidin'--
          Tonight they'll be exorcised.

By the end of this year,
I hope they won't recognize me;
all free and clear
from old, sour misfires.
Tired of sad sermons I been tellin' myself
so I'll shelve 'em and try to let myself debride.

I think I'm fine with
          forgetting the words
to this tired parable I've spent too much time with.
Ghost stories never teach ya nothin' but runnin'
               and hidin'--
          from yourself and your best lived life.

Ghoulish Nostalgia

Blue screen
behind a snowy blur
          Blizzard outside
        cold silence in here.
Forgot
the weight of syllables
          On channel 2,
  I'm disconnected and numb.

               With all the eloquence
               of a bitter, frozen smile,
          Let me draw a map
                          with mismatched memories
               With all the subtlety
             of a fumbled operation.
          Let me trace the tale
                     down unstitched avenues.

This year
I'll try for something like real feeling.
Ghoulish nostalgia's only eating me alive.
And if I could only take my lumps and leave 'em...

...leave 'em far behind,
I might start moving on.
               Onto something
                       current,
               something warmer
                 that's enduring.

Let me try to trace my tale
down these unstitched avenues.

And I'll get back to you.

Dumb & Dumber Luck

You were leaving
     with the first of the Springtime thaw.
I glued my feet and
     now I'm stuck and you know that's all
               we ever found
          we knew how to do--
was just say fake "goodbyes,"
practice "I'll miss you's!"

We can sleep through our dreams
or die standing up
on the paths of same footprints'
           same old sidewalks.
But the equinox came and you went nowhere
                        quick.
Sick of saying, "It's fine here..."
                        Think
                    I'm just sick
'cuz the healthiest ones hated us
       and now they're all gone...

               ...I guess that's just luck.
                           Dumb luck.

I was leaving
     we both knew that I wouldn't get far
before retreating
     to you and to this asphalt
               I've always walked.
               We always knew how
to just fake fake "You're fine's."
Swallow fermented growls.

We'll just sleep through these dreams
of packing our stuff.
Write our hopes on punched tickets--
           can't afford the bus.
When the equinox comes and we're still here--No
                              shit?--
We'll be convinced it's good here.
                         Think
                  we're just sick.
'Cuz the healthiest ones hated us
        and now they're all gone...

               ...I guess that's just luck.
                           Dumb luck.

Stick together, squeeze the time in
with the snow falling down.
Do what we'd never get away with
when the Summer comes around,
       When the cops patrol the streets
              that the city won't plow

               ...I guess that's just luck.
                           Dumb luck.

Two Zero One Six

Got 2 fingers for this night
2 bloodshot eyes on the town's small size.
I'll take this walk on shaky toes,
take 1 more bottle for the icy road.

3 years, 3 months and countless ghosts,
some angry friends, a long walk home.
     I stumble down Wyoming Street
   and ball 2 fists inside my coat.

                      Stunted
I tripped while running in place,
bit my tongue and cut my nose up--
    fucked my pretty, spiteful face.
                   And I'm just
                       punting
and slurring while I beg for pardons.
Forgive my weak and sour heart--
                  didn't mean it
when I said "Goodbye and fuck this place."

I'm a werewolf on nights like these--
popping joints and twisting knees,
yellow eyes and dagger teeth;
full moon makes my lungs freeze.

When memories claim my mind,
can't see through greyscaled eyes.
Sorry to waste your time
          but I seem to have misplaced mine.

Hundred questions for myself.
Emptied 15, placed them on my shelf.
0 answers inside each 1.
Shapeshifter's sorry that I killed your fun.

3 years, 3 months. 1 long walk home.
I gambled with these dicey ghosts.
I spilled some drinks and said some things.
Grab my coat and hope you can forgive me.

                      Stunted
I zipped my leaking lips up.
Bit my tongue -- I'd made no progress
     Hung my petty, spiteful face.
                  And I'm just
                      punting,
but could you forget my infractions?
                 didn't mean it
when I said, "Goodbye and fuck this place."

I'm a werewolf on nights like these--
Claws bared and licking teeth.
So, please just don't mind me
as I walk out on unsure feet.

Sorry to waste your time,
but I seem to have misplaced mine.

Placebos Rebranded

I've been a feature here for four years now.
You're an armchair or a doormat
Once you've been around
awhile.

I wanted fresh breath and a brand new face.
Maybe a companion just to
take up space beside
my side.

But the "EXIT" light was on too long.
"Eventually, they heed it or they just become
fading notes in a song
that we forgot we sung."

Or at least that's what you told me...

Or at least that's what I'll write here...

And what about you...?

It's a tangling grid of street names I
     keep
tangled on my tongue
3 inches under my eyes
     (They ask directions).

An end result of a series of
     hasty,
maybe-good decisions
I made 4 years ago.
     (Seek validation).

And what about you...?

There's a comfort here we can't escape,
take two for granted
and call to cancel coffee dates.

There's an ease that breeds friendships like ours,
Convenient and seasonal;
Friendships that really aren't.

"Rose Park" names our neighborhood
A few blocks slant, we prob'ly shouldn't
talk today...
Similar coordinates
A useless map. Mistake by any
other name...

Second chances, we won't get them.
And I guess we don't deserve them.

The State's an acci-
     dental sigh.
The town's a too-comfortable lie.
And you, I guess
are just another neighbor of mine.

Waning Gibbous

The night will corrode
Our smiles will erode.
It's been a long time coming down the track I s'pose.
The weather's finally warming
but I'm cold, ya know.
          And I know--
     the season's gonna change.

So peel back
          the streetlit sky of a Sunday night.
Reveals black.
          One empty gut, one clouded mind.
Got a fistful of pocket lining says I'm right.
Wrong way. Left turn. I'll be alright
          without you.
     I know my way home.

One talk at a time,
I finally know.
Out of words. Out of time. A frown growing slow.
The temperatures are turning,
turn my back and go
          'cuz I know
     that you already have.

I've always known
I would walk out alone.
Had to come out swinging for the quick K.O.
I hate the fucking heat;
you're sick of the snow.
          And you know--
     My reasons. Your excuse.

So peel back
          the bullshit smiles of a Winter night.
Reveals black.
          Your toothless mouth, this empty fight.
Got a fistful of pocket lining, walk all night.
Wrong way. Left turn. I guess I was right
          about you.
     I know my way home.

          Without you
     I know my way home.
          Without you.

The Amazing Human Bouey

Rushing.
Crashing.
Ocean fills my ears.
I'm stranded out here bobbin' with these others
after way too many beers.
Our ship started sinking
after parted ways and too much thinking.
We're all way too salty now
and all too soaked to swim to safety.

I've got
a notion, friend, to lay some blame
drop a few names, retreat again...
You are
a battleship, your big guns blaze
afloat on rage, bristling ardor.
      I'll calm you down, so dry me out
      or sink me now. We've spent enough
      on life.

Coughing.
Laughing.
Protests fill our ears.
It's frigid out here. Walking off these shudders
past the closing bars and jeers.
Boarded. Started singing
all our anthem cries from here to Longstaff.
"Land, Ho!" we cry sarcastically.
We're still too soaked to swim to safety.

We've got
some way to walk, cover some ground.
pass a few blocks, we're lost & found.
The night
had shrunken down, contracted fast.
dark purple sky is bristling hoarfrost.
     We've warmed us up, so pull me out
      or sink me now. We've spent enough
      on life.

Red Eye

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

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

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

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

Defroster

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Civic Wins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        What you gonna do now?

Real Bitter Hours

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

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

   it aches after they leave.

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

          Again, you circle back.

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

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

      it burns when you exhale.

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

   And they know that you do.

Charms Demystified

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

               What's the final tally, mate?

Means of Egress

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

           It's all we really need right now.

          It's the only thing we need right now.

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

Passing Grades

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

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

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

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

Sharp Angles

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

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

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

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

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

Block Programming

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turnstile Gates

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

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

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

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

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

Send each night on down the line.