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.

Merry Christmas To All!

"Merry Christmas To All!"
by George Bailey & Friends

AN EXCERPT:
Merry Christmas, movie house! Merry Christmas, Emporium! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan! Merry Christmas, other various 1940s establishments that no longer exist! Merry Christmas!

How We Saved Christmas!

"How We Saved Christmas!"
by Kevin Manahan & Eyvette Min

TAGLINE: Two kids. One divorce. Hundreds of hilarious antics! It's like Parent Trap. Except with adopted ethnic kids instead of two bratty white girl twins!

Clearly, I Am So Detached, Moody, Puzzled (And Your Children Probably Like Me More Than You These Days)

"Clearly, I Am So Detached, Moody, Puzzled (And Your Children Probably Like Me More Than You These Days)"
by Kristen Stewart

BACK COVER:
Did you like...see me...in Twilight? Remember all those times I just couldn't freakin' believe that Edward was a vampire and I would like...go into convulsions because I was just so confused? Remember when I said that I would totally, like...miss the heat in Arizona? It was like...in the first five minutes, but be honest...you were hooked. You believed that I would totally miss that heat. And remember how I took it all in so magically and beautifully, like I was amazing...? Cool. Read my book.

Party In Pairs (With Class)

"Party In Pairs (With Class)"
by Mallory Larsen

BACK COVER:
Who's going to hold your drink when you kiss or fight someone? Who's going to smash things with you when you say the party sucks (after you've been asked several times to leave)? Who's going to steal stuff from the party you just had to leave? Who's going to hail a cab by flashing it down instead of flagging? Who's going to take you to your bed and either go saint or sinner on your ass (literally)? Who's going to buy you breakfast the next morning, saying that you totally wanted it and "taking advantage" is libel?

Well, I don't know. I'm a book. But I bet someone is!

Situations where this book may help:

- An ex just showed up to the same party as you with a date, and you can't find your switchblade, so you make your friend look so good, your ex kills his or herself on the dance floor with a dirty knife he or she found in the sink.

- A circus where the ringleader asks for two volunteers and you don't want to work with an audience clown or real clown, because, well, screw clowns .

- Some board games suggests you need a partner and you'd rather have sex with a handle of vodka before you force yourself into a threeway.

- You chose a song at the bar and some bitch changes it. You gotta punch some lessons. Who's gonna hold those arms while you dump a something-tonic all over their face, yelling racial slurs that don't make sense, like "lagibaloo!"

- You want to get down.

One-Sided Phone Conversations, Volume One

"One-Sided Phone Conversations, Volume One"
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"A White Girl, An Asian and Star Wars"

No, dude, you're never going to believe it...

Yep.

Yeah, with two girls!

No way. She could easily slip out of handcuffs.

Well, yeah, she's Asian, dude. She weighs, like, 40 pounds. I could probably throw her over my house. I wouldn't though, because that's racist.

I don't know, man. I guess 40 pounds is a lot, but let's just say I'm really determined to do it.

Yeah.

Ok, look, we both know that I failed physics. I just think that I could toss her over. Or at least make it happen with a running start.

Yeah right, the taller one's white. Really nice body though.

I don't know. But get this...I think her dad's in the mafia.

Hmmm...should I?

He wouldn't shoot me for that. I'm totally being good to his daughter.

But I took her out for dinner first. Doesn't matter what happens later, right? I earned it.

Well, yeah, but we were role-playing at the time.

Tarzan and a sexy cop doesn't even make sense. You're combining roles, dude.

What?

No, that's stupid. That's like...really stupid. Why would a firefighter be with Jane? You're switching everything around now. He's a hot city boy and she's trapped in the jungle.

Why the hell would he rescue her in the first place? Are there house fires in the jungle?

Well, it's not helping. You're just throwing out any combination of roles that pop into your head.

No, you're yelling.

Sure.

Yeah, but it's not sexy if it makes no sense. Princess Leia doesn't even know what a Catholic school girl is. Why would they be hanging out anyway? And then who would I be? Would Luke Skywalker be messing with a school girl's innocence? No way. I'm a goddamn Jedi Master. I wouldn't do that.

I don't know. Jedi's the only religion I know of in the Star Wars universe. Shoot, you'd think that God would've been there a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Wow. Hmmm...maybe George Lucas was telling us all something.

Ok, yeah, Jar Jar Binks would be the Anti-Christ. For sure.

Well, yeah, as Han Solo, you would just have to wear the vest and blaster.

Yeah, but her hair wasn't really all that sexy in the first one. And he was frozen in the third one.

No, I don't want to be them at the end. There's no passion or tension at the end of a trilogy. What about that part where they hook up on the ship? It's kind of boring, but it's something.

That's gross. Don't compare that to the Sarrlac Pit.

Why I Haven't Cared About Real Sports Since I Was A Kid

"Why I Haven't Cared About Real Sports Since I Was A Kid"
a therapy session with Jake Kilroy
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
Chapter 5:
Overexcited Baseball Fans That Get In My Face For Not Appreciating America's Pastime

Ok, I'm sorry I don't care about statistics outside of school. Or even in school. What's his ERA? What is an ERA? All I know is that it's some capital letters that when put together means an extended amount of time signifying some kind of plateau in between two changes in culture and/or science.

Oh, good, you stand to hold yourself invested in and devoted to a group of local multimillionaires that play the same sport you did as a kid. Alex Rodriguez has never publicly written or painted anything. He's never recorded a song. He's not an artist. He has no creativity. He was just paid $252 million to play baseball for ten years.

I'm not worshipping that. Sure, I'll continue to gamble on these players (and attempt to fix the games) but I won't hold them in high esteem. Men who know everything about sports are like aliens that know everything their soil. Did that make sense? I don't care. Chapter over. Whatever. I'm only good at apathy, I guess.

Ok, if apathy was a sport, I'd be Willie Goddamn Mays.

But then that would make me good. And you know what? I'd beat your asses. Ok, now I suppose it's empathy. Because I care about beating you. You'll probably cry.

Ugh. I remember one time that me and Tommy Watson got into a fist fight in the outfield during some Little League practice. That guy was such an asshole. And now he's probably some big baseball star and you totally love him. Man, you'd lick his goddamn knees just to taste his scabby sweat.

Seriously, that guy was a total dickhead.

What?

Wait, seriously?

No way. You're making that up.

Oh. Wow.

No, I had no idea.

Well, of course I wouldn't make fun of that.

Ok, nevermind, it turns out that Tommy Watson's just a stupid meth addict these days. Like an asshole.

I Miss The Good Cameras, They Were So Good To Me

"I Miss The Good Cameras, They Were So Good To Me"
a memoir
by Lindsay Lohan
Photo from photogeek.tv

AN EXCERPT:
Did you see Mean Girls? Remember Mean Girls? Remember how many boys wanted me when Mean Girls came out? Remember how sane and normal and hot I was?

"Oh, it's that healthy cute redhead that parties here and there. We all love here," they would say.

Now all they say are things like...

"Oh, she's such a weirdo blonde lesbian that will never ever do anything better than flash the cameras again."

"She's just a few more rounds of heroin away from being Courtney Love."

"I might be into her if she got a body peel or two, but then she'd look like a dying unicorn."

I don't even know what that last one means!

Cry break!

Annnnnnnnnnd back!

I miss the cameras when they'd whisper, "You're so pretty, baby. You'll always have work." No. Nope. Not now. Instead, I spend time with my 30-something girlfriend that makes little to no-sense. I know, America! I know I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm trying! Ok? Jesus, just let me make my movies! And go see them. Please. Go see that awful movie where I'm fake pregnant. No, it's not Mean Girls, but it's kind of like it. Some of the girls are mean in it. And it's two words. I think it's called Labor Pains. I don't know. I was really drunk the whole time.

I know. I know I can make a movie. A good movie! Parent Trap 3: Caught In A Custody Battle! I'll be a hero! Kids in messy divorces will love me again! They'll understand that I can't do anything about the vodka in my cereal. Oh, the cramps are back. My body hurts. Why is everyone letting me do this? Has anyone seen my sister, the stripper, the breakdown?

I'm ready for my close-up now, Mr. Disney. Remember me before I loved the loins so rotten.

The sun never sets on Sunset Boulevard! Hmmm...maybe I should move there.

Hot doggie, where's the nearest cave?

No, I suppose they don't mind me being thin and blonde there. I look good in those pictures as a baby, don't I? All smiles. No bikini shots. No transparent shirt. No DJ humping. I just want the attention of those that'll really love me.

This isn't mean to be funny. This is meant to be artistic, beautiful annnnnd spectacular! I wanna be a star again! Why won't you let me dance again, God? I'm crying as I write this. I hope you're happy, Hollywood. I hope you drown me or you, America.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. The red hair is killing me. It makes my face itch.

Jubilee

"Jubilee"
a novel
by Julia Hiser

AN EXCERPT:
"There will never be distance in the ocean," Bradley yelled.

Monica stopped, but didn't turn around. The park was busy. The festival was being built around them. By tomorrow, she wouldn't be able to walk without bumping into strangers. Bradley faced Monica's back as she began to cry.

"There will never be distance in our sweeping arms and certainly not our love," Bradley continued. "I am as pure as this nostalgic longing between us. I feel like we're stuck in the 1950s and loving every second. Pull that black and white body against me and let's make sure this new year has fireworks until the numbers change."

The dirt below Monica's worn shoes was sinking, she felt. Her sweater was itchy and her nose felt like it was bleeding. She rolled her eyes, embarrassed of herself and of Bradley, though she didn't want him to stop talking. Not for any second available.

Please keep going, she whispered to herself.

"When I become old, I will have a model train set and you'll have that garden in the backyard," Bradley yelled. "Please build me into a better man. That's all I ask. That's all I could ever ask. I want to feel like a kid again, all the wonder sensation of everything new. Please tell me I'll feel that warm tender sting again. I want that everlasting numbness, I want that glory and I want it is to start now. Can we start now? I want to be home with you tonight, somewhere in the golden windows of a log cabin. I want the blue silver light of the moon and night and stars beating the lake water like it were smashing mirrors and diamonds all at once."

"And?" Monica yelled, hardly turning her head more than a faint nod.

"And I'll have my typewriter and you'll have your books," Bradley said with a smile, feeling as though he were finally digging his way back into Monica's heart. "We'll make our overalls work and our love will endure whatever cowboy western tribulation we'll deal with. I'll love you forever and I'll love you well. I'll love you when my heart is dead cold and my soul is rioting to revive me, so I can love you into another eternity. Give me some light, give me some stars, just give me supernatural illumination."

"More!" Monica wailed.

"You'll never tell me it's done," Bradley yelled, beginning to shead a tear every couple of sentences he screamed, slowing approaching her. "This is our sailboat waiting. I couldn't love you any finer than our own private tropic island. I'll love you to the worst black death in Australia. There would be heart there. You wouldn't be able to tell the difference from the city's lights and stars. I'll laugh and love you. I'll cry and love you. I swear to the Almighty that I'll love you. I promise him I'd love you. I have to love you. You're never going to have to love again. Please never leave me in the stars watching you. I've passed through Heavens and clouds and nearly knocked stars to love you from afar. I want to watch you, but I'd float farther into the next afterlife, so it'd be blurry enough to never recognize the new man. I could pretend it's still me. I could wage war in my mind to tell you everything you want to hear from such a starlit distance. For the first time, my feet will swim through carpet. I'll treat life as a painting and death as a delightful joke. The worlds will swirl and I'll still love you. I'll love you. I love you then. I love you now. I love you still. I'll love you forever. I love you."

Monica collapsed. Bradley reached her. They were safe with each other again. They both had forgotten about the lake, the mysteries, the heartache, the letters, the lifelessness in both of them. They had survived, though their limbs ached. The wind picked up.

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!