torn labels

Trolley motions me from th hard-stare scratches of th bar
to a table in a corner of th room.  wooden dancefloor and
a handful of bodies move in and out of one another beneath
th silent approval of wildlife.  th crowd is a familiar morph
of unfamiliar faces dancing wingless beneath pulsing lights.

pearl jam and for a moment life is easy and upheld – I float
on a neon pulse through th black – 

                I know you’ll be a star
                in somebody else’s sky
                but why…

we’re all angels w/ clipped wings
trapd in an anti-gravity chamber,
for a sec. 

sleepless coyotes, Trolley and I slip into opposite sides of th
red vinyl booth.  th mellow corner of th raging room suits me
fine as  

pheromones glitter in th strobe light like powder from a
bustd pill-cap.   

She leans forward, sips her Boddingtons, crosses her paws on
th table and talks of herself : training to be a member of Rocky
Mountain Search and Rescue; patrols th mts in a helicopter by
day, and slings drinks at th Ice Cave in night.  

– people do some hardcore shit around here, but not many
people attempt Mt Katami, Trolley says.

I stare into my glass and ponder th difficulty of climbing th'ice
cubes.

– photography, I say.

she takes a pull of her beer.  truth wells in her eyes deep, blue
and bulletproof, so to say, see you in another room.  but then
again, I could be drunk.

– do you know anything about the mtn…like that more people
have been killd by bears this year than have summitd.

I shrug.  th scene of my father laying in th grass, out of sight,
lens pointd at th golden beasts, flash, es in th dead pan of my
mind.

– besides, th base of th mtn is closed anyways after a finnish
climber was mauld by a grizzly two weeks ago.  it’s probably
going to remain closed for the rest of th fall.  it’s been a poor
season for berries and there’s nothing they won’t eat.  doesn’t
seem worth a picture to me.

– no one can really know th value of another’s foto, I say.

Trolley goes on to explain that she was part of the rescue team
that had pulld slammung’s bloody body off th mtn.  th shreds of
north face, th exposd bone, a bed of flesh.  his climbing partner
survived and w/ one leg managed to climb a tree where he bled
to death.

– well I’m sick of pictures of churches, and im even sick of porn.
if you find me up there be sure to develop my
pics.  death as my biographer.  it’s either  that or I drown trying
to get a shot of th bottom of an emerald lake.

Trolley feigns a laugh and leans back in th red, takes a long pull
of gold from th frostd glass and looks towards th dancers. 

ramble on, til I get there.

– I’m aware of where I’m going anyways, or else I wouldn’t be
going there, so I don’t need a lecture, really.

– yah, well I have no problems lecturing you or anyone around
here cuz I’m th one who hauls th bodies when shit goes down.
in two years I’ve seen enough accidents from people going where
they shouldn’t.  left me no faith in common sense. 

– you couldn’t lift me if I was in one piece or two, I say.

she laughs, leans back and bends her arms like wings. 

– it’s those kids out there that keep me th busiest anyways, She
says, pointing out to th bodies in various states of flung on th
dance floor.

– yeah…

– they think they’re fuckin invincible on their titanium mountain
bikes and snowboards signd by pros. what makes someone think
they can land a forty-foot drop off a cliff just cuz they got a new
full-suspension Kona.

– don’t worry, I won’t be launching off of any cliffs out there.  At
least not on a bike, I say.

– you’re funny, Cody, but I have a hard time telling if you’re joking.

you young w/ broken bones and concussions. you people going
where you shouldn’t without experience, blah – scramblers, high ice-
climbers.  elevation, you’re the one that comes back wrapped in
bloody blankets.

– fucking yourself is one thing; fucking nature is another, Trolley
continues.

– save your breath for when you get outside, I say, taking a drink
and wondering for a moment what exactly that meant.  but I didn’t
care, words are free.  

we stare at th dance floor through plastic eyes.  she discusses
th less interesting details of her life.  I offer nothing of myself.
my mind wanders through nine inch nails and my eyes dig holes
in th cracks of her smile.    

# posted by hardyf : 17:36  1 comments

I continually fell on my hands in th garden
weeds wrapd in layers around my body
let myself be buryd and waitd for flowers
to grow – but only red shoots of anger
penetrated th black earth

            I let them grow

reemerged from th soil under a blue sun
went back in th house and drank a pint
of whiskey. half asleep
in front of th television I dreamd of my father
being mauld by a bear –
he did not struggle as I would have liked him to
but his boots kickd th coals
I thought dead
and turnd me over again

I took to th hum
of tires on pavement – another fist in th fight
another face in th fire 

8 th’anonymity of a stain          passing on a double line             weary eyed

            no future                                     in a dead world
            current heaven                            telefoto blue

oh there were nights. th fragile
hangover. too late opend th front door
and faeries blew in. some small and quiet like mice,
others monstrous shadows

some nights turnd desire into pain
girls hung onto th jagd cliffs of bone as I roard at
crimson horizons from my front door
strangers at two a.m. bare-chestd and bleeding
come in. comets, cigarettes
and heart burn

                                               awake to a grande. pink barrista, I feel
                                               nervously alive as yr words rush over me
                                               like steamd milk
                                               staring deep
                                               into th fate of coffee cups

by afternoon pick up at th battle of melancholia
a truly romantic battle – on th misty moors of

black June killer mumbles august, love, moves on,
says october solar system seems empty

creep  creep     creep       creep in too        young    ex      plosions

                                       [ iron me
                                       high in a tree
                                       steel cables spun around
                                       and around me ]

# posted by hardyf : 10:32  2 comments

so I’m drinking at a small bar calld th ice cave in jasper, alta.
thursday night, th scotch is cheap and so is my nerve. a dalwhinnie
on-th-rocks perches atop mt katami, just northeast of my wrist.
th big game on th walls seem content and stare blankly towards
a point in th upper-middle of th room.

in th dim spotlight from an overhanging lamp my head is hung
over a map. mine eyes squint to stay on a trail of dots weaving
through th contour lines, which get closer and closer and merge
into a cliff. mine eyes, deep in a chasm, suddenly jump up to its
edge – a flat view for such a dangerous idea.

th bartendress moves slower w/ every drink. slower means easier to
catch – but who’s slow. she’s small and mexico blonde. young
and firm, moves like scotch between cubes. or a glacial stream
over boulders. like a deer bouncing in th sights of a shotgun.

her rocky mountain tan colours her well into autumn. a real
cinnamon, not fake like hung in a sun prison trying to death to
maintain some unreal tone. she’s straight faced as if in th middle
of a steep descent, and I drink her scotch. every time she crouches
down to get a bottle of beer from th glass cooler her blue thong rises
above her hip-hugger jeans and smiles.

                             (isolation spine

I pull a pack of drum out of my satchel and roll a cigarette. strands
of soft, maroon tobacco tumble into th valley so I sweep them back
into the pack. th cigarette lights by th strike of a yellow pack of house
matches. careless voices enter into the room at my back, and gusts of
mountain air – blowing over my skin from th surfaces of dark blue and
distant glaciers. 

I must look like a weary old traveler, I thinks, hunchd over th map
in my weatherd blue knit sweater. girls and boys press themselves
up against th bar on both sides, creasing th edges of my map,
demanding drinks from th mtn nymph. i exhale smoke. 

mine eye are fixd in glance highwayside. th room cedar glows
and a blue neon tube-light above th bar. pool tables rack-and-clack
and foosball kicks and drinking and dancing and so on. th bartendress
slips me another dalwhinnie.

– on me...so, where you going?

– huh...nowhere. 

my voice is groggy for not having spoken for awhile – days, perhaps
even months, so I repeat myself.

– what do you need a map for to get nowhere?

somehow th way she leans in when she asks th question seems
relevant. she is, like, a blue line waterfall spilling over a contour cliff.

– mt katami, I pick a place.

she walks away but continues to look at me while pouring a pint. her
arm tightens, releases th handle, and she sets th beer down hard on
th counter and th head foams over. she leans back on th bar across from me. 

– my name’s Trolley, She offers. 

her hand comes at me. it’s small and I’m confused for a moment, but I
reach out and grasp, cool and damp from th frosted glasses.

– cool name.

– yea.

– I’m Cody. 

I let go and she strides away to pour another pint for a waiting punk.

– well, Cody…I’m done in a few minutes. 

I ponder her comment and fold up th map. of lands and scotch I
struggle through another honey burn, only to have another set before
me. a reason to goodbye – words stumble – come out as 

– thanx.

to say goodbye. down th street a cold motel bed awaits. but she bends
over and smiles, th outside of her body, and inside th night is a cold
world. th map sits down and fumbles though another scotch.

as I pretend not to wait, Trolley’s body digs a pit around me. she keeps
mixing drinks and looking over. I wonder who askd who to stay – my
mind wanders. 

                                         b/w th trees a passionate forest fire burns
                                         and gasoline raindrops fall.I cannot
                                         talk through my mask, so offer me
                                         a quiet home.

most people have feelings, and think it polite, necessary even,
to speak. to one another in order. anyone bitten.

near midnight, as icicles form in my glass and in my mind, Trolley appears
on the barstool beside me and slips two more in conversation.

– why don’t you just drink doubles, She asks.

– why didn’t you ask me that hours ago.

– oh you’re a mean drunk aren’t you.

she swivels, stops, looks at me.

– so are you like a mountain climber, She says, making like she's grabbing a rock.

– not really, why.

she laughs.

– that’s a near impossible mtn, don’t you know. have you even seen it. 

I look down to th map.

– yea, it’s right there.

# posted by hardyf : 10:44  4 comments

male bear
et prolog

when i was younger still my mother died. our house was down th street
from th high school and a grocery store, so when my father left my sister
and I were in walking distance of nutritional theory.

i was in charge – a virgin pushing around a man. i didn’t sleep. i lockd
th doors. i unlockd th doors. i went in and i went out, crushing dried
funeral roses in my fist and letting them slip on random doorsteps.

my father’s sister lived next door – an alcoholic, guardian in absentia –
and she would stop by once or twice a week. 

spring north of flowers didn’t exist. and summer was a flash in
th pan. 

then – th night air coold and coold and coaxd its way in. i chopd wood,
made fires. my sister became proficient at cooking good, thick soups. i
would make th stock and she would make th soup – chowders, bisques
and purees everyday.

nights I would sit by th fireplace in my father’s worn chair and harvest kerouac. 

no connection to th’outside world. while my sister slept in my bed.

i pictured my father as th black and white explorer of a history textbook.
100-pound external frame pack on his back – prepared yet determined,
looking stolid at a pinhole camera. nothing but distance for background.
th camera, set carefully on a rock. a mystery in th rock lungs behind him
kept deep hate from settling into th accumulating winters. 

born into winter – bound to a numb soul.

those early years were impressionable years, and they turnd out only
emptiness. when th sun was supposed to be simple, and light th path
of play – it cast shadows. radio waves and soft blonde hair on thin
legs; blankets and stars. there was none. only bonham’s solos and
solo chaos.

deeper into th shadows; goodbye closed tight.  through a heart.

my sister moved away at 16. she said she was scared of me when she
left, and I kept going.

i had one picture left and my mother is laughing. i threw everyone away
and she kept laughing that cancerous laugh. im th baby in her arms,
looking at her like – what is this laughter? all in a wooden frame.

life went on outside. my age swerved. school and jobs seemd useless. from
dawn to dusk the city swallowd itself. i ate my meals alone, in silence.
years passd of watching headlights cross the dark living-room walls.

th fire was lit but I couldn’t feel th flames – only th burn when it spirald
down my esophagus and choked me on the day I finally opend th dusty
bottle on th mantle – and its warm, thin liquid dulld and lulld me nightly.

became myself, rusty and sedated. one to care, another to forget.

and then dusk came on a day so much like any other. it could have been
a yesterday or a tomorrow. and th headlights on th wall crashed and th
fire assumed full-flame and chased me out th house – into my father’s
old bronco, I drove down th street past th school and th grocery store.

# posted by hardyf : 23:45  1 comments

male bear

when i was young my father went to th mountain. not year-round though,
as he came home in winter – to hibernate deep in th wood panels of his den,
surrounded by slides and 16-mm videos. he had names for th bears, and I
often wonderd if they rememberd him. when spring came, he’d go back to
mt katami – as regular as th thaw.

in late autumn, when he came home, th mtn followd him in through th door
like a glacial draft. for months he wouldn’t take off his boots. he slept in his boots,
in a sleeping bag. his beard grew winters and eventually th few words
he ever spoke became grunts. 

in spring, when th back door was no longer frozen shut, he’d step out onto
th hard-crusted snow with his yellow pelican case and a coffee, stop for a
moment, and survey th hillside across th river. then, walk across th backyard,
through th gate and start his truck. gone; a hunter w/o a gun; bootprint father. 

then, one year, he never came home. 

my sister and I became th carrion of a spring morn. six ft of snow
meltd to reveal imprints of small souls in th frozen ground. 

in my night dreams, leafless trees stand crookd atop misty hilltop horizons
like skeletal hands reaching from th ground; a river flows with th colour and
consistency of deep amber whiskey pourd from a full bottle; silvery-brown
meadows lay open and empty, collecting th precipitation of my fears. 

th scene, season after season, year after year, remains th same – th wild and
empty stage. missing beneath th pine-pillar heavens is my father and
his bears. i know they’re in behind th treeline, or peering down from
alpine zones, but never do they move into th'open. 

unsettling is th feeling that they watch me from deep in th forest,
eyes buried behind layers of growth, seeing me love and fuck and fight from
their cold comfort. come out! spirits have nothing to offer and this path
cannot be part of your trail system – show your faces; do not den in my
night dreams. 

# posted by hardyf : 10:16  1 comments

build a liquor fence around me
and lay me
on a window bed.

                                    slowly, th drops of blood
                                    come.

unhappy in this generation ;                                 romance     ferment
                                                              beyond    perhaps

th problem is
i am only water,
yet named                                              asshole & lovr    /    writer & fuckr    /     cunt & cock & son 

was confrontd by myself
in a bar,
had little to say.

                                                moved on behind black flames.misu

# posted by hardyf : 21:40  0 comments