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.