torn labels

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