Raw

I am sculpting from the raw.

It's unpolished, unedited

and above all,

uncompromising.

You seem to be a universe

contained in a single grain of sand.

I’m the love child between the ghosts

of Bettie Page and James Dean.

There's no point to this poem

but to tell you a piece of the story.

I have scars from battles lost,

let's you and I make some glory.

Darling, we should make some time

to afternoon spoon and wreck the night.

Watch the comets take the sky 

we should make some time

to kiss away the fight of life,

two souls lost in the rogue of delight.

Love, Jake

Homecomings

With midnight calling I spread my wings

to the arms of judging archangels ,

sitting between granite gargoyles.

The church bells are quiet now

expect for the whispering tenants  

that expose secrets in forgotten Latin

from the voice of tired Gods

in a noise only the horizon understands.

You’re in my chemistry

I feel you through are molecules;

the breath I take

I feel oxygen

pushing into shared lifeblood

My veins dilate from your electrified touch.

your resoluteness crashes through me;

my senses,

my body,

my will.

Soaring wings take me to the abyss

and I scream into the void.

She never answers in a timely fashion.

The north eastern wind tenderly

but forcefully blows on all four sides

of my true face when she kisses me.

I wait faithfully 

for unexpected homecomings.  

Jesse James

There once was a blue eyed girl
with black and purple hair
metallic blue nail polish
and skin made from the milk of moons.
She left the smell of cloves
rubbed into my clothes
and was always on the move.

Her name was Jesse
"like Jesse James" she would say.
She'd see things no one else could,
she'd hear things no one else should
and she sang so nectarous 
seeing her always made me smile.

I miss the twist of her clover kiss
I miss her shoulder when it rains
She left the world
not just me,
and I am still in love with our pain.
She's a bullet and feather
and she never looked better
than dreamily sitting on my bed.

We are still dancing somewhere.
We're love children and madmen.
I've never loved more
Than the punk angel I adore
and the midnight laugh I won't hear again.

Rest In Peace 6.28.80-4.16.98

These Days

These days pass like brittle leaves,

empty tin cans circling the street.

On a window taps the thin branches

it lulls me in a song of autumn

into a trance like meditation

that leaves me fully dressed,

on a bed now made for hours. 

Filling my thirst of cool cool rain.

It’s hard to look left.

It’s hard to look right,

when you want to forget

so many sights.

But our past of keepers

protecting us and damaging at once.

If there were not a past,

time would be irrelevant.

Nothing would exist

and sometimes I want that.

But in the real

engrained through the great scheme

I hold out an offering of love

which at least proves,

my universe exists.

November

The city dove

speaks in riddle,

clings to my window pane;

the summer’s in birth

from the trees to the Earth

and something in me has changed.

I remember her hair

smelled like an orange field

I remember her hands were cool.

I remember the November 

we were together

“I am fortune’s fool.”

A scuff in your boots

and blood on your cuff.

There’s moonshine in a tin cup,

the bottle’s run dry

and I don’t know why

this time wasn’t enough.

Inside

I sleep where the lions weep with an entire universe inside me.

Departure

A sweet departure of wine soaked kisses
haunts the swirls of my smoke
of Kamel Reds in my clandestine hours.

There's one more vice I should have.
It might be the death of me
There's only one horse
painted black
on this carousel by the sea.

Tell me that you love me again,
as you run your hand through my hair;
remind me we are fighting the good fight
over throw me again with a stare.

A sweet goodnight sealed with a kiss
Her eyes were trying to say more,
we both felt the impact...
I left the car and walked to my door.

Keine Angst vor Liebe

If I could hold back my tongue

from the rogue and the bold,

calm my pulsing veins,

I would reach for you

with a moments notice.

Slight of hand

smoke and mirrors,

entrance me to entwine

what truly scares me most.

Keine Angst vor Liebe.

I am not afraid of being alone.

I have twenty twenty in the pitch black,

a pocket watch stuck on 7:02

and a body that could cut glass.

But you grew a tree with a rope

that effloresces in spite of the cold.

This city’s pavement chills at night

leaving pages and pages to unfold.

Shoebox and Beam

A duct taped shoebox of photographs

and a flask full of Jim Beam,

past is past

there’s no looking back

or so it so often seems.

I made peace with the morning

but continue to worship the night.

The high alter of your idolatry 

Crumbled more and more 

provoked by the light.

I don’t miss you anymore.

I gave you up drinking bourbon 

I gave up the ghost on razor blades

You’re not as special as you’ve come to think.

It’s a summer rain,

the fade of your face.

Everything follows you full circle round

and devil dealing's the only sound.

Goodbye

I heard her go

before the door hinges moved

and I let go before there was a door.

She was always smiling

her deception was sensational

while laying stone by stone

between our highway hymns,

and we’re trapped in different songs deadfalls.

I don’t need a hero.

I just need my coffee and whiskey,

my morning cigarette and toke

as I sit between the angels;

they kiss my face as twilight concludes.

Your silence was deafening

as you propelled your wrecking ball.

Why should I expect ‘goodbye’

when you don’t even call.

Oh, but you don’t believe in goodbye.

I go temptation dancing,

I write libraries with what I learned,

like I know you know you’re fucked

before you'll let that bridge burn.

Plummet

Beside your slumbers and breathing,

it’s still our sunrise shining on me

over rowhome rooftops and bladed leaves.

I can feel the clover blossoms

of your dreaming gone unruly,

spreading over my bare feet.

We venture forth in trepidation

down a path rising up to coax us,

entice us with belladonna and ardor.

You cover me in your smile;

inch over inch like charged static.

Your spirits are creeping into my bloodstream

warm and bracing like old fashioned morphine.

I submit to the unsteadiness.

Whether I choose to admit it or not

I’m rocking back on me heels

unprepared for the plummet

into the sea of gravity and adoration.

Spike on Virgo

I remember seeing the spike on Virgo

that soft emulating glow,

and I wanted to be there. 

Summer disinters life from the ground.

As much as heat nourishes

it's power and element must not be tempted, 

for it can indiscriminately destroy.

Things become alive again

from that which has remained dormant,

in the eyes of the eager.

Like a map only I can decipher, 

the vernacular of solitude

whisper to me sweet thoughts about the mountains.

An explosion just beyond this universe

causes the butterfly to shutter her wings,

sending a chill to my bones

and a fever through my blood.

I pick up a pebble

for every part of my heart

gone missing but not lost.

"Oh, Mama Rock Me..."

This is a song that takes me to my happy place.  No matter how the twists and turns tire me, I can always turn this on in my house and do the silly happy air guitar dance.

Metamorphose

Like Heathcliff across the moors 

the water calls to me relentlessly,

demanding but she has been ever faithful

unlike the lovers

with cat like loyalties.

I’d carve an ocean in my arm if I could

but the current would over take me.

One’s most misunderstood actions

is all too often defining scars

of a heart once tender and forgiving

now iron plated and rock hard.

I was built for this

for my heart is the more expendable

than the soul and the body,

that’s for damn sure.

What I lack in self control

I try to compensate with hubris.

Artichoke Haircut

Gypsy

Her dark skin was gypsy like

warm on my intrepid fingertips,

as I stroke her back

staring lazily at the tattoo

in the curve between her shoulder blades.

She rolls over and takes my hand

it makes the perfect physique.

We are perfect for a snapshot moment

before the realities of who we are

washes everything away in the blink of an eye.

I look up again 

and you’re walking across the street

giving me a sanctimonious wave

without breaking stride in the least.

And I smile back

thinking about the pewter pendant 

that covers where your heart is.

It’s part of her atheism and faith

and I know she sleeps with it on. 

A Winter Fire

A winter fire her grey eyes shine

seeing straight through me

to the embers that remain of the day.

Summer started tonight

and even blades of grass

are touched and bend to the will

of hovering June solstice.

Silver gleaming hair

and flawless olive skin,

she dances with the fallen shadows

outstretched her slender form,

beckoning me into her cadence.

We move like vigilant wolves

we move like avid lovers

and the full moon follows in pursuit

witnessing the embrace of ages.

She holds lavender candle wax in one hand

and a pair of dice in the other,

my spark to and apprehension.   

Photography by The Amazing K. Gleason 
I know I spelled sorrow wrong but used a program I can't correct it on.  

Sea Lion Song

The sea lions we sang with

driving through Cannon beach;

the soul of the sound pierces my dreams.

Half across the universe

you're still in reach

I see you in rose pedals floating on tea.

The firewood was wet

but we didn't need it.

We had our porters and stout to keep us warm.

The nights I spent

allured by your breathing,

carry me beyond paroxysm,
........... fury and ardor in the storm.

There's a single firefly

swirling around my fingers

and I'm in love with her name.

Her glow is a fade

but her poetry lingers,

in beautiful but deadly refrains.  

One Taste

Take one taste
it's all it takes
and follow me to where
the quicksand quakes.
Into the chains of seduction
Three lines and I'm done
I don't expect anything less
than unadulterated meaningless fun
with horizon tidings
and a band of seraphim;
come away with me tonight,
I'll show you how to be young again.

St. Paul and Centre

Walking down St. Paul

passing Victorian gaping windows

and royal towers left to decompose.

Winters cavernous shadows

replaced by summer shade

I think about her smiling

though I'd lead the black parade.

Rooftop dancing and cheap liquor,

June birds know the wayward hymnal

and city to city I go skyline lusting.

Exuberant.

I've fallen on the blade,

I've sung the stainless steel serenade,

All is not fair in love and war

but occasionally worth it anyway.

"It'll just be some ghost, that sneaks out at sunset

                                    .....just to end up drunk on your doorstep." - Chris Pureka

Train Station Love

She blows me atomic kisses
and my heart explodes,
together we're in train station love
and the rest is beyond our control.
She reads my mind
on the crowded platform
and nurses my wanting stare.
When we're  together
part of me is better
and I'm brave enough for the dare.


I still talk to my shoes
when there's nothing to lose....


She's the most beautiful color that I've ever seen,
I cant keep it from my heart
Lover, I'd tell you everything,
if I just knew where to start.

Whiskey Lullaby

An ashtray overfilling with confessions

empty green bottles now collecting rain,

I am ready now to turn out the lights

eyes heavy under the water stains.  

This is the time where you say to me

"we weren't meant for this world",

your broken strings still play love songs

but your facade can't remember the words.

One more ride on the gondolier

one more stolen cigarette kiss

every smile covers one of your tragedies

and it's what I've come to miss.

There will never be another

that will sing to me the silhouette blues

early in the sawdust of morning

sweet and out of tune.

I wish that I had a love song for you

if my ink would only comply

I wrap every intimate detail

in a whiskey lullaby.     

...set fire to the bedroom....

Day Old Coffee

Day old coffee,

the ceramic skin heats my fingers

my purposeful exhale expels

literature of a spector

who departs in a rush of cowardice,

under the guise of pride 
and hidden gluttony.

It is beyond me.

Coffee goes down easy,

there's June wind on my feet

and I singing to myself

about the running Blue.

The master mind is now a war machine

I see Heaven and Hell and lightening.

Thoughts grinding forward

like a juggernaut  

and my soul turns to iron.

I am craving river water

to sweep me away from the day.

The bombs have fallen and I sit pretty

in the frames of a demolished city;

forgiveness is only hard

when it means something.

These Hours

In these hours I see so clearly,

I see all the finer movements

of a rain dance and war machine

in the face of a clock pushing on

unaware that she is the anchor.

I can float so high

I escape the supervision of stars

and the constellations lose track of me

But I have crawled and will not be denied

my thirst for what other’s have been lacking.

A good friend of mine always says

“It’s going to be okay, love.”

And mostly I believe

in her modest hopes be delivered

But some nights we howl off the Severn bridge

believing in nothing but the rushing of the river.

In these hours I breathe so freely

and save my blues for another day

because I can I be sad 

with soft eyes seeing through me

but it’s for another time and place

so just for awhile,

let me stay.

Silks

She fades from me

and I can breathe

and move myself in reclamation.

My body protests the wildfire

but it sanctifies my mind,

I owe no one any explanations.

Words are nothing more than words;

a fool’s fortune is a promise

four and twenty ravens make a murder

a hearts an organ

nothing more, none the less.

I hear sky calling all the time

in the integrity of every rhyme

and we are all blank paper drifting.

One eye on the west coast

one hand on a nameless ghost

I push back hard with the weight 

I’ve been shamefully lifting.

My lover’s gone and I love to be wrong,

I conquer the day and capture the night.

I dive into Prussian silks

black coffee spooning with eggshell white.

Sometimes I wish the tide would....

In The Rain

That night I really heard the rain

coming from my own windows,

heard only in a state of true solace;

it returned something to me.

Part of me walked among Icarus, 

as a mark of the liberated

sunk deep into my heart.

Coming to Terms