We both had enough of the poison Springtime
So you picked me up, and you started driving.
               The street's Westbound,
                rain and wipers pound.
We can be reborn if we can just depart
                             our town.

Race away--
                  --like we'd set fire to Bon-Ton
Lose a day...
                   ...take 84 past the county line.
               Let the rain keep time on the sunroof
                                  'til we're fine.

                              Do they ever feel it?
                                --Someone does!
                          The grinding. Rewinding,
                                hit play to repeat
                                          and then
                                          get paid.

                                        The payoff?
                                      You'll stave off
                          14 lies from their dead end eyes
                                     for one fortnight.

                                        Be forthright.
                                        Am I blind?
                                   Or do I detect that
                               our headaches kind of rhyme?

Make us reborn this time; phoenix down and back upright.
Continued the drive and the world we're righting.
                                 We killed our time
                               and came back to life
Just in time to return to our twinkling
                                         town lights.

When we have our fill of the pissant Summer,
let me pick you up and we'll head out driving.
                   past the Cannery
                until Rouse turns free
our zipped up obits that we can't speak
                          cleanly.

Race away--
                  --like we'd set fire to Bon-Ton
Lose a day...
                   ...take 84 past the county line.
               Let the rain keep time on the sunroof
                                  'til we're fine.

                                Let the rain keep time
                                    on the sunroof.

                               You'll be fine...

Sew my ******* eyes open
and never let me sleep.
Watch until my blues run red
               and you've
          shown me what's
                     to see.

Tell the story of your golden crown,
you platinum-plated ****.
Let me know how brazen trumpets sound
               when filling up
                     with spit.

It's not enough to hate you.
And it's not enough to cry.
Crying havoc through your perfect teeth:
      it's much worse than a lie.

                          So lay me down on
                        5th street train tracks
                     where the old bums go to
                                       die.
                  Then roll out on your cart of
                                golden coin
                         and break some toys.

Play the game of pampered princes
      painted like paupers and ******.
Zip that costume up and hit the alleys.
                Catch a fix.
     Or a "swift one off the wrist."

Tug my bruising eyeballs out
and lay me down to bed.
Awake until the red turns black
               and your
           mouth starts spit-
               -ting lead.

Tell the story of your paper crown,
you hollow-hearted ****.
Let you know how hunting hounds do howl
      when crawling in
             the muck.

                       "You ain't nothin' but an *******,"
                     and "I don't believe in nothin' you're
                                  trying to prove." (The Falcon)

You were making the weather, I think
when you found me alone, all tethered in sinuous seaweeds
You had brought the sky inside with you.
What else could you do?

Damascus steel, your snarl
Hard, beautiful, sharp, distinct. An art.
You let the rain have your heart, for a moment, didn't you?
What else could you do?

Your footsteps are music that I can't quite hear
But your face is a season of songs--lyrics screamed at God.
Tear me from my torpor, please, no matter the violence.
What else could you do?

Distance means more than one thing, I suppose; and separation
Of land. Of daring. Of intent and of want.

List holy places and honey their names...
Eden, Asgard, Avalon,
Camelot, Elysium (Aluminum! Linoleum!)
I'd settle for Akron if you'd meet me there,
or Butte, even.

Your eyes buzz and hum or retreat and freeze over
and I? I follow their lead when I see them.
I can do nothing other.

Whenever I wander, I think of your shape
or the shape of your thinking.
I can do nothing other.

This, then, is a prayer now.
I pray with your name, which I'm always whispering.
I can do nothing other.

The pond by your father's place always froze over
The ice always reaching no matter whether the weather was freezing or not.
The silence on either side of the window panes killed you, you said.
You told me the patterns on the glass reminded you of bleeding.

You used to have donkeys, and they always loved you.
Bringing them pears and soft touches behind ears.

I was a boy, still, but it all made sense.
The way that your mouth moved
when whispering memories to me.
I remember that Spring that we fell through the ice.
Jangled nerve endings felt stabbing. Cold knives.
Wet hair. Lucky to make it out.

The last time you saw me you told me, "You're bleeding..."
I smiled and spat once and said I was fine.
I'd tripped on your driveway whilst walking to see you
and busted my lips on your mailbox.
You wiped one ring finger, stilled my moving mouth.
It was only a little. (Blood, that is.)

You wiped it again on my shirt.
You ***!

I wish we'd drawn pictures in the snow with it.

The Winter has claimed me, I think, since then.
Blizzards well up in the corners of my eyes from time to time.
Snowbanks form on my brows when I furrow.
I furrow a lot now.

The wasps in the tree at the edge of your father's place
Stung up your back and neck that Summer. Remember?
Calamine smile, you had me pull out the stingers.
Your dad's debit card, wiped across your back.
"Declined," I said.
You laughed.
And the pond, in my memory, still looks iced over
Even though that was July.
Right after my birthday.

Last month, saw the sign, said your father had sold
          his place. Our place.
             He misses you too.

I wish you here now.

We're all getting old, but I can't let myself grow.
I'm not any smarter, I'm just clothed in cold
And I forgot how to feel the way we did then.

I'd like another plunge, through thin ice, I think.
Anyway, I hate the Summer time.
The heat's too mean.
You know that about me.

Stunted, the same, by
          highs
            and
           lows
           alike.
A jubilant parade inside
           some nights.
Silver linings? Ticking timebombs! Infinite splinters!
No good time left unexploded.
Rusted blood iron and red wine
filling my eyes.
          Tired of feeling "weird."
          Tired of knowing I'm being.

I wish I wanted anything in a way that didn't
                              scare me.
I wish I could love anything in ways that
                            couldn't hurt--
                           --inward or out--

                    I wish...
                    I think...
If I sit on this bench...for a long time,
and keep perfectly still...but make subtle
                    eye contact
          with some of the crows...
they'll accept me as one of them?

                    Teach me to fly
                    Or, at least, hide
                       in plain sight.
        A new vocabulary for my quiet
              when it starts to get mean.

Entangled, alike, by
          lows
          and
          highs,
         the same.
Convenient jailbreak for a Name--
               --Say it.
Chewing paper? Eat the playbook. Shred this formula.
No good night goes unpunished.
Rusted blood in my mouth, and red wine--
crying outside
                    Tired of being fragile
                    Tired of knowing I know.

                   And how 'bout the crows?

                   I'm good for a laugh, they suppose.

Another song for the Autumn...      
      A ditty for the pretty things that couldn't stay
Seems ******* silly not to smoke 'em all while ya got 'em.
                    Gotta find fine shoes
                    when you choose the run-away

Another song for the Autumn...
       A ballad for the beauty that I couldn't frame.
Seems pretty stupid not to **** it all; what's not rotten.

               But the world's grown tired of singing
               And my throat's been beginning to get
                                        real sore.
               Shot our shots in the dark with some
                                          feeling.
             ­   Felt sure that we missed,
                but we don't know what we hit
                A million pieces, unseen, and bare feet
                                        on the hard, cold floor

Been pretty quiet all Winter.
      It's blizzard after blizzard, hugged by static months.
Feels kinda funny keeping warm while all nature's freezing
                    Chatter teeth 'til they crack—
                    cracking bad jokes to no one
                        'til the sky stops teasing
                                                                ­  me.

Been pretty quiet this Winter.
         Been sliding over sidewalks, slugging static shots.
Feels sorta futile not to kiss it all long forgotten

               But this throat's grown tired of singing
               And the world's been beginning to go
                                      stark deaf.
            Still shoot my shots in the dark with a
                                        feeling
               Sure I'll only miss.
               What would I do if it hit?
               A ricocheted round and two feet
                   meet ground after theft.

                 I know I'll be nursing this one
                                for a while—
                 Lick the sour wound while the
                             daylight fades.
                 So hit the **** dimmer on your way
                                out the door.
                  I'll be fine in the gloam
                 'til you find your way home...

                 I'll be fine in the dark we
                                   shot into.
              Pour another one, sweets, in the
                                  endless cup.
                I'll be fine in the dim, with my
                              separated skin,
           until the Springtime comes and I can
                           sew this ****** up.

If I die in the jungle,
among the rot produced by ubiquitous living,
among the fragrant green and surging noise--
--my God, the noise--
               then I live on in the ants that
                        section up my skin
                                 to carry
                                    back
            to colony and queen , in soil or up trees.
I live on in the green--hidden, but insistent,
a well kept secret, in the chlorophyll.

I live on in the jungle.

If I die on the tundra,
then, first, it's the foxes, with their
seasonal shade shifting, who will then make
               more foxes.
And, then, it's the scavenging bears (of either hue, earth or ice).
And, finally they'll find me, the microbes,
                         though they'll take their time.

I live on, on the tundra.

If I die in the desert,
parched, withered, mummified,
not more than anomaly among tiny grains,
then, still, the wandering jackal
               --observing protocol--
          will pay her visit and, with me, provide;
          gaping, yawning mouths in hot wind
                         receiving against backdrop
                              of endless, shaking
                                           sky.

I live on in the desert.

But, if, in wandering familiar street maps,
in frequenting my favored haunts, and
               in daily rendering,
     I am forgotten by those I love,
               and who best love me,--
          if my imprint fades for them...

...then dead do I walk upright.