Heading southward,
lengthy street
down this hill we delivered newspapers,
round this bend we spent parts of every day,
this park,
this trail,
this river;
she lived here,
they lived there;
who lives there now?
(I tired of the river spot
there’s nothing left there to be found.
Isn’t the nostalgia
enough to make you sick?
Do you pine for the days that
were old but not good?
In dark hours alone
the mind plays tricks.)
Summer, sounds,
winter, bricks.

[February 2005

So I learned to like whiskey in winter
and I
will always love a cigarette
in late autumn night air
and I learned it all here
the vacant-eyed stare
the hands through the hair
I burned every single bridge and
I burned them all here
’cause i learned it all here.

So I broke down too many winters
and my
lungs are twenty years gone
and I play from behind,
let myself run out of time,
nothing to lose, no shits to give;
half of it wasn’t mine,
what’s left doesn’t shine,
that is more than all right;
what is left is mine.

Near here but not directly passed:
a staircase down which someone crashed,
the moment an hourglass is flipped
and what was held releases grip,
a child of an old neighbourhood,
a transient misunderstood.
Shoulders rounded under weight,
a middle finger full of rage,
a dirty mouth without restraint.
(Turn and then tear out the page.)

A whisper to a sunrise:
any one happened here,
any where was here.
Whispered to any eyes:
you and I were here;
we were right here.
Leave it all behind,
turn right past fear,
then second left from there–
Not until yesterday,
when today got here, then
tomorrow got here.

That old wall,
these old views,
this silhouette.
Those who fall,
who’ve been abused,
who dream redemption yet.


Will there be nothing to
say we were here?
And if there isn’t, should we give a shit?
We gave all our lives to this,
and it hasn’t proven worth it yet.

Will we carve our names with keys and chains
and knives and words
and hands and games?
Will we give a single thing
to find the will for what the future brings?

Will there be fire when we want cold?
Are we mystified by growing old?
For every dream that’s made of gold,
there’s another night to cave, to fold,
to get busy dying or get bold,
to inventory
the years I sold.

I won’t play in
wills and ways–
nothing and everything at
once to say–
I will, tonight.
I willed today.
We will only be here
’til we’re
gone away.


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