When we see breath in April,
We get nostalgic for the days we still smiled with our eyes
Where we come from, the summer ignores all of our prayers,
She will deliver us, when she is ready
She will leave us begging and bleeding, sitting up nights in spaces vacant save the glow of streetlights, picking up each other's pieces after one too many exploded mornings, smoking until empty packs signal our forced surrender to sleep, with nowhere to go and nobody to impress when afternoon comes to revive us,
And we will still believe she sets us free
We never had to learn to connect,
We had to learn to keep up, and quickly
To be down for whatever, whenever
To never grow complacent, because the feeling can strike anywhere;
To run until the boots tear, to drive until the gas runs dry, to sing until the neighbors join the chorus, to **** until the blood of the demons we exorcised stains the sheets, to fight until the pavement resembles our favorite paintings, to say everything that's ever crossed our minds only to forget come sunrise, to chase the sunset to the edge of relapse and leap with faith and conviction into the abyss that rises to greet us, to let it out let it out let it out LET IT OUT, to watch the sky until it spells out the message we wanted to hear, to break and be broken, to destroy and be destroyed, to **** and be killed, to be reborn under stage lights in the arms of brothers, to be reborn in back yards under Midwest stars in the arms of sisters, to be reborn on city streets in the arms of lovers, to be reborn under no force but your own will when everyone has given up for the night -
I wait up, I listen for the heart of my city to wake and beat the blood back into our limbs,
I count the phases of moons that have felt pity, I play back the words of angels that spoke to me in warmer weather,
I receive no calls to interrupt my sleep, I do not sleep regardless
I consider the act of hibernation as a commitment I never asked for,
I dig deeper, I pray as much as an atheist can
All cycles must reset,
All stories must rise,
Any grave is temporary,
Any hell is nothing that can't be driven straight through,
I will not stop for gas,
I will not stop to rest,
We will get there, when we get there, don't you worry

It is the last moments before dawn, and I watch the crescent Ohio moon be swallowed by clouds, but not without a fight


It is the devil in blazing June back when we still thought our heroes would know better, when we saw each other in the first sparks of growing fire and knew we could distill divinity to its most basic components, when we ****** and fought for every breath we drew and thought we would eventually deserve it, when we sang, every ******* night,
"EVERYBODY WAKE UP" til the cops came,


It is the last ashes from the infernos of August that blanket the trees when we should be asleep, my brother tells me we've come back to where we started, as it was, again, over cigarettes we shared when we couldn't afford anything else, the subtext of which read: "We will talk about this, when we are better men", and we managed to inhale enough smoke to believe each other one too many times,


It is the way we were romanticized, or at least wished to be, the build up to full collapse happening over months of binges and talks about anarchy, of doors left open and un-entered, of long drives where I envied people who consider the journey to be the destination, because they didn't have to be so ******* nervous about how to act once they got there,

It is the moments of tension that precipitate the release - this is true in regards to punching your best friend in the face as well as ***

It is the ghosts of the fires we set, the drugs we took, the arrests we avoided, the people we ******, the kisses we couldn't connect, that still come for me, dumb and insatiable as ever

It is the fever that sets the bones to ache, the sickness that doesn't leave you in the morning, the love that you cannot **** no matter how kind you are; this is the story that follows the stories of all those nights you hear waxed poetic about,


For what it is worth at least I am still able to recognize irony when I write it

It is the way we talk now, only relating to each other through the same few stories of the same nights we all lived through, the stories that haven't killed us yet but haven't stopped trying

It is the way I still fill in the harmonies when I sing those same songs alone,
It is the volume **** turned as high as it allows,
It is Your Favorite Weapon cutting through static, forever 18 and invincible, yelling
"EVERYBODY WAKE UP"
It is the dream we lived for, given new life when I drive too long, asleep at the wheel, not ready to move on and not able to remain,
It is the promise that we never made but will all hold each other to -
We will talk about this, when we are better

This is about the world as you might hear it in a Springsteen song,
The long road ahead stretched like an invitation to some unburdened future - the freedom to make it in America without selling your soul,
the dream of every man, woman, and child to land upon these shores,
This is about the politics of suffocating that dream,
The last few blinking seconds of light before the quiet dark consumes,
The great surrender,
The resignation from both sides that the fight was fixed from the beginning,
The process of accepting that the reality you are in now is post-hope,
You cannot live on and you cannot die,
You are the true silent majority,
You unnumbered purgatoried masses, you incarcerated brilliant souls, you who thought you could stay honest, you who thought you would recognize your moment when it came, you who cannot remember what life was like
BEFORE. ALL. OF. THIS.

This is about how to recognize when your way of life has failed you.
This is about how to recognize when history repeats itself.
This is about how to recognize that your system is ready to die.
This is about ******* that system.

Step one:
Step outside of the things that you believe
Step two;
Start over

This is about the shadow of Nixonland as it darkens the American sky once more,
About the mourning mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, daughters, sons,
who can not live through this again,
This is about knowing when it is time to let go,
For you are not the captain of this ship,
You are under no obligation to go down with it

Under these streets runs the blood of the promises we made, with gold plated markers placed every few feet to remind us of what we lost:
The dream of the beatniks - a needle in the railroad veins of America,  the grand old night skies illuminated by the halos of the restless Benzedrine angels circling overhead with thumbs outstretched for a ride to Somewhere Else,
The dream of the old folk singers - the hatred of tyrants surrounded and forced to surrender, with liberated love and the joyous hymns of the workers filling the cities in equal measure,
The dream of the punks - a Molotov inferno sending politicians from coast to coast running for cover, and everybody able to get off a few good punches before it's over,
The dream of the hipsters - to hit the bottle running and black out before anyone knows they were ever there, to let it all fade out in distorted chords until everybody has to leave and they are the only ones still clapping,

As with all things, there is a story here if you are willing to listen,
For the ghosts of waves who crashed the shores of lakes long dried, destined to rise and crest and break and crash again,
For the muffled beauty of a young boy listening to his favorite record hoping no one is close enough to ruin this moment,
For the faint but distinct sounds of ripping fabric as he discards the days miseries, folded up and prepared to resume come morning,
For the hesitant snip of scissors in another room as he accepts the terms of surrender, followed by the rustling of hair and dignity falling into trash cans,
For the indignant howls of desperation that divide each night into portions,
Those who feel and those who are numb,
But the feeling is only treatable, not curable
And once it is there, one eye is stuck forever watching the horizon waiting for bombs to fall,
The other studying cracks in the foundation waiting for total collapse,
Both know that this has to end one way or another,
And the beatniks sing,
And the old folk singers sing,
And the punks sing,
And the hipsters sing,
And the ghosts all sing,

We either get there or we suffer
We either get there or we suffer

Something about the way we relate to each other -
Doing 80 down opposing ends of the same grand highway, strung out in shades of purgatory and sunset, listening to the hymns our fathers taught us before they stopped believing, imagining how easy it used to be to get lost and never be found again, back before they had us by the throats every moment waking or sleeping, this is the kind of thing I live to romanticize,
When we used to talk about Howl you said it lived within me, in the back of my throat desperate to escape into something larger, and when you used to write poems I always wanted to leave the room, there have always been things I couldn't put to words, and yet I still can't stand to leave things undiscussed,
I couldn't give winter the dignity of a graceful death, always listening for the first breeze of spring and falling asleep before things pick up,
And dreaming of a freedom from all of this context; the world has always been big enough without you, and once you bet me I couldn't out run the setting sun knowing full well this is the only fight I have left to lose, and I have yet to accept that responsibility.
In the end everyone has the same question for everyone else, and everyone has the same answer phrased differently:
I wanna
I wanna
I wanna be adored
I need to
I need to
I need to be adored

3 score and ten, late winter hanging on like the bitter kiss of lovers not ready to die, there isn't much I could tell you about the morning sky or dying alone you haven't already figured out on your own, in a car bruised and cracked, the skin of knuckles after too many fights to stay inspired, while patterns take shape above my visions: the still living ghosts of the cars we crashed, the kisses we forgot to photograph, the photographs we forgot to kiss, the wolves we kept at bay only to find them sitting across our dinner tables asking about the weather, next week the same as this one, and for at least five more weeks after that one, if you believe in that sort of thing, I still don't know how to talk to people about what matters to them, and I wake up hearing my grandfathers last few coughs every few hours, I once thought I could burn solutions into my hands for all the problems they were not willing to recognize, now I wonder if I just didn't believe hard enough in the healing process, my dead eyes watching the turn of conspiracies between a pale girls shoulder blades as she sleeps and thinking about the exceptions to all rules, except this one:
If I wake you up, there will be hell to pay

Shelter from the Storm
by Bob Dylan**

'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm

And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured
I'll always do my best for her, on that I give my word
In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm

Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved
Everything up to that point had been left unresolved
Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm

I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail
Poisoned in the bushes an' blown out on the trail
Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm

Suddenly I turned around and she was standin' there
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm

Now there's a wall between us, somethin' there's been lost
I took too much for granted, I got my signals crossed
Just to think that it all began on an uneventful morn
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm

Well, the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount
But nothing really matters much, it's doom alone that counts
And the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm

I've heard newborn babies wailin' like a mournin' dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love
Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm

In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes
I bargained for salvation and she gave me a lethal dose
I offered up my innocence I got repaid with scorn
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm

Well, I'm livin' in a foreign country but I'm bound to cross the line
Beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine
If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm

The poet smokes an imaginary cigarette - a technique he has seen before and stolen from someone far more genuine,
He says,
Never trust a person who cannot own their vices,
There is something sinister here you are not allowed to see,
and sinners all the congregation voice their agreements -
The poet then waits for the audience to voice their agreements before continuing
With renewed vigor from this show of validation, the poet begins the descent into madness:
A former acquaintance who says:
"Man, you used to be so cool"
Reflections on this theme:
Consider: the hands of winter pushing their fingers into a mouth washed clean by bleach and hospital rooms, just to ruin it all over again, full reset, back to the top, just where the fall looks most appealing.
Consider: How little room there is in small Ohio towns for caskets and how I chose not to follow up two decades of suicide with such a dramatic final act more for the sake of convenience than anything else,
(See: Disorder, See: Broken, See: Dysfunctional)
Consider: The lines counted out, the hymns of junkies coming through stereos, the promises of futures rolled up and ignited, the pill bottles empty on a 9 month relapse cycle, the come up, the comedown, if this is supposed to be fun when is it supposed to start,
Consider: The weight of a switchblade tucked in a jacket, a flask in the back pocket of jeans, a flip top box of cigarettes to fidget with in anxious situations,
Consider: That if we all have such crosses to bear it's amazing that more of us don't develop messiah complexes
Consider: Humility, Consider: Dignity
(please, I haven't)
Consider: The faces of my enemies, all of whom I am sure will get into Heaven, and I hope they burn the bridge behind them,
Consider: The faces of my friends, and thank them for the ride from the drunken outskirts of a city called defeat to this very moment,
Consider: The last words my best friend spoke to me before he decided he would rather overdose than let the cancer eat his pride,
"There is no need for farewells here, you know what you have to do and so do I, and if I catch you at a better time, or a better place, we will have much to discuss"
Consider: The fact that I am paraphrasing here, and I will never forgive myself for that
Consider: The massive world shaking voice of a tiny girl who loved the forest so much she hung herself in it so she would never have to leave,
Consider: That because of light pollution there aren't very many stars I can see from here that I can name after these people in my memory,
Consider: The face of this land after we have left it - and try to forgive all of the people who walk across your scars without acknowledging them
Consider: That one day they will divine prophecies from the ashes of the fires you burn out
Consider: Making them worth reading
Consider: The goodnight kisses of crooked girls who have never truly seen themselves in the morning and can only guess incorrectly that it is not beautiful,
Consider: Where you are now
Consider: A place to rebuild
Consider: That everything I traded to get to this point has been survival instinct, and believe me when I say I have built shrines for every step of the way and I pray to the patron saint of each one every night,
Consider: That the poet still has no idea how to apologize when an old acquaintance looks him in the eyes and says,
"You used to be so cool"

I was a ghost in an old haunt, something like 2 AM on a January night living out feedback loops of talks meant for Augusts past when I heard the news -
David Bowie is dead
The man, not the character, not any of the characters
Hero king of the underworld, patron saint for the androgynous and pale, the mad shaman of an age of prophecy, scribe of divine message from the gods of distant worlds, burning rebel heart in drag, bleeding soul at the crest of the first wave that broke down the walls and sent all the young punks marching to war against the world with a switchblade tucked beneath their coats and a steady hand to hold the wheel,
If not for the shoulders of giants we would never see another horizon again,
If not for the madmen with astronaut dreams and bleeding hearts we would never know the beauty in the disorder,
If not for the train that came to take a man to someplace less boring, we would never reach the end of the narrative
And with ties cut and the world at his back,
The man departs, confident he has done all he can do, and that there will always be those who will carry the torch,
And all the freaks in the freak kingdom weep, as only they know how,
And the stars look very different today