The Incredibly Short & Oddball Poems of Jake Kilroy

"The Incredibly Short & Oddball Poems of Jake Kilroy"
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"The Relationship-Ender"
if it's stupid, then it's probably a poem by jake kilroy.

I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt.
I just wanna wear my brown shirt

The Lovely March

"The Lovely March"
a book of poems
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"The Shakes"
with shakes, with the shakes, with the shakes of jake kilroy.

The shakes came from the stereo,
dusty in the wall,
myself in place like a dirty rug.
Tie the room together, tie the loverbirds together.
Watch me, get a picture, let the nerves lessen,
shake, rattle and roll.
Isn't that how we played it the last time I saw you in a blue dress?

Goddamn these old pictures, the dusty bins of lovers,
the rattling of flat skeletons trying to claw their way out;
oh, how the hair stands up when I think of you,
how I ultimately want to take a hammer to the walls,
get the perfume off, get the scent out, it'd give me a new art.

And just for the record,
I never wrote you back because I thought the paper was cursed.

Instead, I...well...you'll never know, I guess...

The shakes...oh, you can see the black lines in the thinner air,
a plague of demons marching towards your kitchen,
just looking to drink all the milk you left out.
Just let 'em come, just let 'em drum,
just let 'em drink.
What else does it take to be a great writer?

Show 'em what you got, and they'll clap their bony fingers together,
leaving the air to be a faint stale taste of modern ruins.
The shelves aren't long enough to keep your boxes,
so I left them out in the rain and watched them collapse,
while I smoked what I thought was a pack by the stove.
I thought the rain would surely flood the garage.

And I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.

I scratched my arms for so long that it look like I had burned 'em,
a prarie wind couldn't have carried me home.
So I let 'em burn for everything that didn't.

Why not?

Burn it, baby, you better burn it, so you can sleep;
so I can sleep; so we can sleep;
burn it on the beach by your parents' house when you come home,
let it go to waste when you spend a winter's week here,
left without refuge, no call, as you'd rather sit in the dark,
than let me see you and bring up the charred remains of us.

"Like a gunshot," I'd say.

"Like hell," you'd say.

And then we'd kiss.

And then it'd fade to ivy, crawling up our skin,
like we were the statues on an east coast campus,
cracking and letting the sunlight do good damage.

The shakes get in me, when those dusty songs play;
god, leave me brutal, buried in a stash of postcards,
rattling the walls, kicking off the dusty scent of charred remains;
the sour taste of my own fingers won't do, rattling inside my mouth,
scared of the medicine it takes to rightfully rid myself of the shakes,
wrongfully, doubtfully, a new miracle sparking the sky darker,
you know I won't stop until I'm riding every cliche on wheels,
straight to your door, straight to everything that I want to knock,
let it go, let it go, let it go, settle, settle, settle,
let that dust burn in the next fire I set to already charred remains.
This former flame is growing.
Oh God, pretty soon, the post office will be on fire.

I have to stop, I have to stop, I have to go.

[five paragraphs missing]

I deleted half of this poem because I lost my nerve,
because I can't ever finish what I start.

I had a cigarette.

I smoked it so quick I thought I ate it.

I coughed up what felt like my small intenstine.

I rid myself of health.

I forever pray to false idols.

I won't ever sit in a church without shaking.

I tossed the cigarette in the gutter.

I heard the buzz I had been searching for,
as the cigarette sunk to the bottom of the dirty water.

I tried to count the stars but got dizzy. I came back inside.

I sat through another lightning storm that wasn't here yet.

I came back to finish what I had started,
wishing I had never gotten rid of anything.

I wish I was a better packrat.

I wish I meant more to my paper.
I wish this paper could achieve more.
I wish I could leave blank pages out in the rain,
and just wait for nature to be a real poet.

And instead of any new year's resolutions,
I just start every new year with a cocktail.

Chase tail, drive fast and don't listen to anyone.

Not a single philosopher.

Not a single wise man.

Not a single nomad.

Why?

Because they don't drink, they don't smoke, they don't lie, they don't steal,
they don't travel by their pockets, they don't don't chase tail,
they don't drive fast and they want to hear what the world has to say.

Well, that's not a religion I'm going to buy. I can promise you that.
I'll build a well and pour down all the milk the demons drank
before I let you convince me that I could use the well for wishing.

All coins have ever done is buy me more reasons to chase tail,
drive fast and not listen to anyone.
And drink. And smoke. And lie. And steal. And travel by my pockets.

Not wishing. God help me, not wishing.

Wishing is for boys, regret is for men.

Am I right?

It's not the guns, it's not the gambling, it's not the gin.

It's regret. That's a man's best game, isn't it?

Christ Almighty, why not die for our regrets?

The more, the merrier. The lore, the lighter.

But not for me anymore.

I've got a poem to finish.

I can't fly through your town anymore, I have to pull over,
I have to dig my feet into the grass of that hill,
overlooking the beach, overlooking the sunken ocean,
a well for wishing if I ever saw one;
last time I was there, a drunk driver almost hit me,
but I was listening more to ocean's waves, maybe my own traffic,
louder than the shakes of the road, I suppose.

God help me.

God help the shakes.

Give me more than prayer.
Give me more than bread.
Give me more than wine.

God never gets the shakes, I hear.
At least that's what the girls told me in school.
He doesn't even pray to a higher power.
And if he's not praying, why the hell should I?

What does Heaven have that Earth doesn't?

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry;
it always comes back to this plague;
a plague of whims, a plague of words, a plague of well-wishers.

You were on my side when this poem started,
but like any good verse, I've charrerd enough of the battlegrounds
to forget the war.

Let me just say this:
I will forever be sorry,
I will forever be a mess,
I will forever wish you were here,
I will forever wish that years haven't passed
I will forever fear old age,
I will forever fear the quiet moments,
I will forever create destruction,
I will forever create,
I will forever tell you what you already know.

And the real reason I never listened to the philosophers,
the wise men or the nomads was because none of 'em ever got the shakes.

And that's the truth.

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.

The Last Song The Devil Played

"The Last Song The Devil Played"
a collection of poems
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
What shall we call this?

The Pompous Poet Lounges Around Loudly Once Again In The Streets
(Or, "What Graces A Young Women To Dance Sin In The Wake Of A Public Speaker")
(Or, "The Cobblestone Address Of Confidence And Beauty")
(Or, "What Renaissance? I Thought You Were All Here To Love Me")
(Or, "When Careless And Dashing, Always Love Heroically")
(Or, "Speak Before Spoken To And You'll Always Have Women")
(Or, "The Evening Speech Of The Arrogant Writer Near The Lake At Sunset")

Hear ye, kings and mighty swordsmen!
Hear ye, leaders and courageous soldiers!
Hear ye, queens and slender women!
Hear ye, bad saints and good sinners!
Hear me, chumps and chumpettes!

I swallowed fire to impress all of the audience
that gathered fair at the renaissance!
We had to dress up kindly and spark with manners,
as we traveled to a where, not a when.
I saw the push of the shove as her tush I came to love,
and I rhymed myself straight into her bed and right out of her heart.
In one holy place and out the other I am.

I've set fire to kingdoms and I've set foot in churches!
But I've never wrestled a beauty such as you.
The beat talker, no street walker, is she
(I pray, and I hope, well-wishers),
but us hapless rogues (snarky and sharky), (whimsical and cunning),
(brutal and bare), (shape-shifting and flesh-kissing),
we're still the leading reason they invented handcuffs.
And I've never been a criminal for crime.
But subliminal for time, or rub slims sinful for rhymes.

Well, you ladies with fans and you fans of ladies,
hear me like the cannon that may be my doom!
I'm the smartest court jester that you've ever seen dance a jig,
and I can swindle your clothes, your cards and your coins,
before you even knew you loved me.
Ah, fair games are only in afternoon lounges it seems!

I live over yonder, out where the trees sigh with content,
the youths swim nude and the lake water has no weeds.
Visit me! I have no barren soul
(or any real character to speak of, just tongue).
I've been an empty birdcage full of words since I last loved,
and since I last loved, I've evolved,
much like the jackrabbit (fast and sweet, I tell you).
I'll lay you tender and I'll lay you cold.
By the end, I'll leave your eternity old.
You'll have learned from loving I,
and I'll stay with you until your chest is red with warmth.
Battlegrounds? I should say not!
I couldn't hold any weapon greater than a pen!

So ink your skulls! And spill paint onto your lovers!
We dine on the most sinful of feasts tonight,
but only after the dimmest of lamps in the street
blow out their candles,
just like you'll be doing in the new waking eve of heavy breathing.

March, young squadrons of bedroom soldiers!
For I have a declaration and I don't want a king here!
Whispers are the only communication us poets have.
They'll kill us otherwise. But I've always been that other wise.

Charming hearts and loosening bosom tops
are charity work in my efforts!
I hereby declare that I'll also be swearing until dawn
that I saw whatever mystical creature you wanted to exist
and named it too!
So piss off, young dreamers and schemers and feverish crashes!
I have done all there is to be done in this era,
that is this day and this age!
And your loves sin from dusk until dawn,
while I leave these troops of stretching women!
Wives have left their husbands!
Queens have deserted their kings!
And I have left my floor before!
But nevermore am I a humble worker in this town,
quiet and without muse!
I am as reckless as I am planned, and I'm as glorious as I am damned!
Drinkers are the only sinners that don't make mistakes.

Powerful rogues! This goes on! I continue! And I apologize for it!
But once you have a fair audience, why stop?
Burn your bottoms and cut off your tops!
The only war we have is with ourselves!
How long have you been fighting? Will you go on? Are you done?
Have you felt your last human being who wasn't you?

Shackles! Prisoners of love! Prisoners of war!
Nobody is at home near the fire!
The giggling you hear at night is not you!
It belongs to your lover.
You've slept right through the excitement
while she slept right through me!
Yes, constables and squires,
I loved your maidens and they loved me!
I assure you that I loved them better
than they could ever hope to sin,
like steam in courtyards.
Beautiful, tender, wild (never mild in my throws),
careless with laugher. Sweet, loud laugher/(explicit).
Look into it while you chase me on the cobblestones!
I'll look to you as I hobble you with words, gentlemen.
Tomorrow evening, I expect us to have drinks!
Because the only thing I'm better at manipulating than your maidens is your language.

The prettiest skies are our faintest light
and our darkest hour is upon us!
You see, I wrote this in five minutes and it's best left
for the eaters of squalor who holler for fights at night when they rhyme so right.
But me, I'm making this up as I go!
I saw a girl in cowboy boots and I felt inspired.
You don't know cowgirls, you say?
Well, I couldn't even tell you
what this poem was really in regards to anyway.

But I'll continue to stand in the public square,
maybe to refine this one day! Or night.

For now though, I have a date with Destiny!
And she's alone until he comes home.

I'm off!

No Gold, No Glory, No God

"No Gold, No Glory, No God"
a book of poems
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"Sleeping In A Backseat"
(The Powerlines Looked Like Crosses)
(The Trucks Looked Like Dinosaurs)
mumbled in a backseat by jake kilroy.

I was sleeping in a backseat, counting my blessings,
the other night, the other long sleep.

The powerlines looked like crosses;
rumbling something terrible against some blurs of trees,
some abandoned homes and some orange canvas
(that only really finds itself admist poems of road-thumping),
but as we drove south and my eyes loomed north,
I counted my fingers broken and rattled my body for weather
(that only really finds itself admist poems of road-thumping),
and I strayed from every hopeless deed I've ever burned into my chest,
countering any culture I ever created and destroyed like a pioneer
(that only really finds itself admist poems of road-thumping),
and for whatever reason I ever remind myself of foreign lust,
I can cradle my own skull atop some crawlspace of burden
(that only really finds itself admist poems of road-thumping).

But I went west anyway.
And then the sun went down like the Bible Belt,
finally a part of an outfit being thrown to the floor before casual sex.
Wear it well, with all of your grand desire.
They'll burn your statues to crack open sunlight.
A farce or an affair, suppose it's all the same when you lie to yourself.
But it's always a good laugh in the morning.

And humility will surely always follow.
And then the sun set, beautifully.
And before long...

The trucks looked like dinosaurs;
rumbling a loud passing with Christmas lights attached,
giants moving slowly against a landscape of burned out lanterns
(that only really find themselves admist poems of road-thumping),
and as I tossed and turned atop a mountain of belongings,
I counted some ripped photographs on fingers melting from misuse,
(that only really find themselves admist poems of road-thumping),
but the trucks kept a graceful pace as I let myself greet a slur of droopy eyes,
and smeared the hum of the trucks' glow by drawing the shades
(that only really find themselves admist poems of road-thumping),
as I couldn't ever really pull the blinds of daft irony, for what this may always be,
and I couldn't keep a gun in a carved out Bible,
keeping that book as hollow as it's always been to me
(when I only really find myself admist poems of road-thumping).

See how I lost the beat?
But for how long has this drummer been out of step, tripping over untied shoes?
Yeah, yeah, I bet this pattern's been sewn into a new jean jacket,
ready to be worn for another party circuit without the plug.

And this most certainly could mean nothing,
when I found myself without a cause or a reason,
without cause or reason,both singing for alarm;
I couldn't remember any Bible verse,
though quietly a righteous life;

and without a finger working properly;

I scribbled three lines on my rib cage:

in every single love or war
that i have ever waged or ever will wage,
i remain the most unholy almighty.

Loving & Lusting (In The City)

"Loving & Lusting (In The City)"
a collection of poems
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"Her Mixtapes"
it might just be that the world is looking to hate jake kilroy.

She told me once that she set her stereo on fire and threw it out a car window.
And from that day forward, I promised to never made her another mix tape.

Two months later, she made me a mix tape.
That Christmas, I gave it to my grandmother to tape over for NPR.

On New Year's Eve, I kissed her.
And the next day, she set my heart on fire and threw me out a bedroom door.

A year later, she kissed me.
The next holiday, I made her a mix tape and broke her stunning heart.

On Palm Sunday, she left a mixtape in my mailbox.
But on Easter Sunday, I knifed a note to her door.

The note read, "Forget holidays, forget mixtapes and forget your lover."
She saw me the next day.

She yelled, "You're the only lover I've had for months."
I said, "I know, and I'm a bad person. I've been making mixtapes for others."

"Other women?"
"Well, men don't fall for my musical trickery."

A month later, she said, "Don't get drunk and kiss me on holidays."
I said, "Then it wouldn't be a holiday, would it?"

She was mine for roughly seven months after that.
Then I started writing her poetry.

She'll probably read this and throw up.
And if I captured it on a mixtape, I'd be more honest than the others.

For the record, I blew up my car radio once, back when I had nights to drive,
before the liquor store stops and late hours hook-up drops.

I pulled bikinis off swimmingly in pools and danced skirts off with hands,
all the while listening to a mixtape she made me some Thanksgiving.

But I've got no rapture to part with, no sainthood to ordain.
I've just got a car bench seat where I can drank whiskey sorrowfully.

And I always listen to her mixtapes.