One Last Victory

"One Last Victory"

poems

by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"Churchfire"
finally...by jake kilroy.

After the long nights of warfare in bedrooms and cafes,

and the short years of peace we had during nights on the town,

the moon went down for a nap and the sun swallowed some pills.

I know you always liked sporadic poems,

filled with descriptions and ongoing sentences,
without rhymes or reason,
filled to the brim with cheap shots of beauty and spaz junk slang.
But you chose the weapons,
you compared us to the Cold War,
you left the salute for a new god,
and you left the love letters for the dead poets we glorified,
back when my mailbox was filling up with wonder,

and nothing from you.

I checked every day, and never a thing of praise or libel.

But I fell asleep in my kitchen, waiting,

clinking glasses with my greatest of doubts,
marching on, tearing down every beautiful thing for your church,
painting new martyrs and humming new hymns,
I fucked in your temple, just to watch it burn, so sing now!
Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing!

I wish the megaphones were on!
I wish the speakers were taped with explosives!
I wish I could finally say something grand without swearing!
I wish this drink would kill me before the stage does!

Oh, dearest memory of olde, they're playing your song again,

and I finally know the words, I've finally got the fire,
I've finally got the plank for you to walk to cool off.

But this dance is never-ending, so you best get your best shoes,
your best outfit, your best gentleman caller or ladyfriend,

because the only bell that'll sound this season
is the alarm that comes when there's a prison break,
somewhere in the catacombs of your heart.

So when the heat dies down, and you're still drinking martinis,
on ice, shaken and stirred and any other movement coming,
you'll be sweating bullets, popping the floor like firecrackers,
as your feet move swiftly in good shoes back to New York City,
back to New Orleans, back to Chicago, back to Los Angeles,
back to the beach where we first saw new stars,
because so help me on the new holiday weekend,
I may be drunk in a church, but I'll still know the gospel.

And just so you know, I wrote the fucking masterpiece.