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.