"what came after the war"

"what came after the war"
a battled consideration by jake kilroy.

g0oodbye, crimson heroes
and beautiful banshees of the beach.
glorious shipwreck cove,
filled with gold and broken bones,
for merrier weather and a funeral at sea.

hello, patron saints
and coastlines of dead priests.
the last stand of any men here
will bleed the history books dark
and we'll all salute with mangled hands.

finally, cloudy weather,
marked as a spell of sunken spirits.
a parade of ghostly footprints,
slowly churning in the gray sand,
one mutilated cough after another.

onward, last of the grand,
with feet so tired they rattle.
slippery fingers over the gun,
soaked from tears, wet from heat,
with only a disease to follow home.

Missculinity: Volume One

I think it's a testament to my masculinity that I naturally assume the gauge is broken if the needle passes the H on my car dashboard. Then, when I pull over and look at my engine, I think, "oh shit, this is what my engine looks like" and remember my dad once telling me, "I failed you as a father."

I hope my car doesn't blow up on the way home.

A Thought

I'm dangerously close to getting it together and figuring it all out.

"our bridge"

"our bridge"
after a discovery by jake kilroy.

smoke burns, carpet burns,
all in one long fire of a day;
sleeping in clean sheets,
letting the television speak,
with all of the lanterns off.
set the alarm for a sunday,
we've got to rebuild.
we must rebuild the bridge.
we shouldn't have burned it.
but my contractor will contact yours,
yet our architects won't agree,
and my workers will slack off,
while yours will just bitch.
mine will fall asleep in the sunshine,
with sandwich crumbs and bare feet,
and yours will stand in the shade,
barely hungry enough to chew.
my men will have pockets of jokes
ready for your men to not get.
i'd invoice a sense of humor,
but you wouldn't lend the paper.
so let's just say the bridge is built
and go home on different sides;
maybe see each other next year.

A Whole Mass O' Mess

My mind's all over the place, so here's a...

Fake excerpt from a noir novel:
"Bang bang," said the gun. Nobody in the ballroom laughed. They had all heard the joke before.

Poem with just one line:
You can collect broken hearts like phone numbers, but you can't store them like baseball cards.

Quick recap of my life:
Life has been stupidly good lately. I'm writing more than ever. I'm reading as much as I can. I work from home two days a week and surprisingly appreciate my commute to Los Angeles the other three days. I play basketball at least two times a week. A recent 10 a.m. Sunday morning basketball game turned into an all-day barbecue with all the locals eating burgers and playing volleyball (I didn't get home until 10 p.m., sunburned as shit and happy as hell). Monday night is still group dinner/writing and Tuesday evening is now watching old films on a movie screen in a backyard with friends and popcorn. I feel like I'm living out my third adolescence, as I keep finding myself falling victim to the dumb grins I remember carrying with me as a 20-year-old; back when all I remember doing that year was going to shows, going on bike rides, going to Australia, going to Arizona, going to Northern California, going at everything with a charming sense of who gives a shit. I feel like I have all the time in the world and I've never been busier. I also don't think I've ever written such a junior high-sounding entry about my life, not even in junior high. I feel like I'm on the verge of writing things like, "And I'm hitting more green lights when I drive!" Ugh. This paragraph was disgusting. Ah well. Woop, woop!

Something I can't stop saying:
Woop, woop!

Movie you should watch:
City Island

Song that should make you feel all kinds of good:
"Good Ol' Fashion Rump Shaker" by The Hood Internet
{Beastie Boys vs. Matt & Kim}

Dangerous thought:
It's been an amazing past month of summer and it's only April. Hot diggity damn, coming summertime, I'm gonna mess you up in a sexy way. Woop, woop!

The Dinner Party: My Delirious One-Act Play

The Dinner Party: My Delirious One-Act Play
a stunning lapse in judgment by jake kilroy.

[CHARACTERS]
CAROL
a thirty-something insurance agent who wishes she was smarter
SEAMUS
an obnoxious but content thirty-something with a lack of ambition
AARON
a failed novelist in his thirties, currently working as a columnist and married to Mandy
MANDY
an apathetic retail store manager with a drinking problem, married to Aaron

[SETTING]
We see four long-time friends sitting around a dinner table set for a dozen people. It appears that all of the seats have been occupied during the evening, given the leftovers and crumpled napkins. The characters Mandy and Aaron sit at the heads of the table. Aaron appears relaxed and observational and Mandy seems tired, as she leans over the table, propped up by her elbows and holding a wine glass close to her mouth. Seamus in between the couple, looking about the room, with Carol on the other side of the table, squinting as if thinking of what to say.

CAROL: What do you think Descartes meant when he said, "I think therefore I am?"

SEAMUS: Holy shit, Carol. It's pronounced "day cart," not "des car tes." Have you ever even fucking heard French?

CAROL: Oh, I'm sorry, Seamus. I was hoping you could not be an asshole for once.

SEAMUS: Yeah? Well, I think you're a bitch, therefore you are.

CAROL: Oh, I'm sure that's what Descartes meant. I'm sure he meant for some welfare rat, whose greatest accomplishment is banging some hooker and not contracting a venereal disease, to use that as some weak burn at a dinner party.

AARON: I hope one of you two gets AIDS.

CAROL: Me? Why me?

SEAMUS: I bet I could fuck something diseased and not get AIDS.

AARON: How?

SEAMUS: I don't know. Will power?

MANDY: You don't have any will power.

SEAMUS: Me? Are you kidding? How many times did I refuse to sleep with your insane sister?

MANDY: She wasn't insane. She was a sex addict.

SEAMUS: Meaning I wasn't an enabler! You're fucking welcome, Mandy!

CAROL: That's probably the nicest thing you've ever done.

SEAMUS: I know, right? Finally, Carol says something that's not stupid.

CAROL: Yeah, sleeping with you would've probably killed her with sadness.

MANDY: Thank you, Carol.

SEAMUS: Carol tried to sleep with her!

MANDY: You did?

CAROL: Only a kiss! I was drunk, it was college, I think it was my birthday...I don't know! I was 20 and I just wanted to kiss her. That was it!

MANDY: Wow. Maybe you sent her into the loops.

CAROL: No way!

AARON: Is that a phrase? "Into the loops?"

MANDY: Yeah, I got it from your failed novel.

AARON: Ha. At least I tried.

MANDY: Said the failure.

AARON: Mandy, I'd say you drink like a fish, but a fish would've drowned by now.

MANDY: Wakka-wakka-wakka.

SEAMUS: What the shit? Was that Fozzie Bear?

CAROL: You would know, you immature douche.

SEAMUS: I'm a douche because I love the Muppets?

CAROL: No, they're not mutually exclusive.

SEAMUS: Oh my god, Carol, I've never heard anyone use a phrase so incorrectly.

CAROL: Not even when you hear hookers lie about washing their hair instead of taking your money?

SEAMUS: What?

CAROL: You heard me!

SEAMUS: Yeah, that's the problem every time you talk.

MANDY: We need more wine.

AARON: Said the fish.

MANDY: Said the failure.

AARON: You're already repeating yourself and you're not even a dozen glasses in yet.

SEAMUS: Holy shit, are we missing American Idol right now?

CAROL: I think so, therefore we are.

If I Wrote Old Movies: Volume III

If I Wrote Old Movies: Volume III
by jake kilroy.

“Darling, this is too much red wine,” she said, holding out her glass.

“Is there such a thing?” he said with the sly raise of his brow and the twist of his mouth.

Her laughter fluttered like butterfly wings, and then she drank the maroon sea from her glass.

“How is it that we haven’t stayed in on a Saturday all year?” she asked, looking about the room of gold and white.

“The year is barely even a quarter of the way through.”

“Yes, yes, it’s the longest new year’s party we’ve ever attended, I’m sure.”

He stood at the window, warmly surveying the city, as his wife settled into her lounge chair with a silky exhale.

There was a polite knock at the sitting room door and their butler entered.

“Mr. Harrington has arrived,” the old servant said with a bow.

“Oh, good, good. Show him in,” the man said, waving his hand.

A young man entered with his right hand outstretched.

“Charles!” the woman said, gleefully pulling herself up.

“Hello, Uncle William,” the young man Charles said, shaking the man’s hand before moving towards the woman. “And, Charlotte, you dazzling spectacle, you look like fireworks as always.”

“Too much make-up?” Charlotte remarked lightly, as she and her fur coat swallowed Charles in an adoring hug.

“Don’t start her up and then leave her with me, you scoundrel,” William laughed, pulling a long sip at his wine glass.

“Sorry, uncle,” Charles said, pouring himself a brandy immediately. “The women I meet with are hourly, so I’m used to not wasting time.”

“Why, you delicious savage,” Charlotte crooned. “Where have you been hiding?”

“Somewhere between the lower east side avenues,” Charles said, sinking the dark liquor of his glass. “They have marvelous bars down there, complete with easy women and hard men.”

“My boy, it sounds like quite a life you lead in the slums,” William said.

“Oh, it’s something alright, but I’ve found myself somewhat intrigued by robbery these days,” Charles said, pouring himself a second helping of brandy. “By the way, this is a sensational decanter. Exquisite glass work.”

“Don’t bother stealing it. It’s yours if you want it,” William said, raising his glass as if it were a toast.

Charles grinned. “Thank you, dear uncle, but permission takes all the fun out of thievery.”

“So you’re a gentleman thief now?” William asked.

“Oh, no, no. Gentlemen play cards in the afternoon and enjoy polo,” Charles said, wandering the room, admiring the portraits and antique furniture. He swirled his drink thoughtfully, making sure not to spill any.

“So you’re just a thief then?” Charlotte asked, repositioning herself on her side.

“Hardly,” Charles said. “Thieves pick pockets and lift fruit from the local markets and stands. What fun is that? I’m a grown man, not some petty orphan child looking to live another day.”

“So what do you do then?” William asked suspiciously, almost as a purr.

“Why, I rob, dear uncle! I wear masks and break into houses. I tie up families and take their things,” the young man explained, grinning sharply and savoring his words like a meal.

“Oh, come now, Charles,” Charlotte cooed. “Your mother and father would just simply not allow such things.”

“How are they to stop me? Mother’s in the hospital and father’s in the basement.”

“Oh, dear heavens,” Charlotte gasped. “What has happened?”

“What do you mean, your father’s in the basement?” William asked in a low, gruff tone.

“Well, you see, after I hit father in the face with the rifle and mother with her favorite vase, I tied father up, so he didn’t crawl to the front door and bleed on the rug I was planning on taking.”

Charlotte mumbled incoherently, confused and shocked. William thinned his eyes.

“You did what?” William asked, a growing impatience rising in him.

“I robbed them, dear uncle!” Charles announced enthusiastically.

“You robbed your mother and father?” William growled, setting his wine glass down. “You tied up my own brother like some pathetic animal and sent his wife bloodied to the hospital?”

“Oh god,” Charlotte cried. Her hands covered her mouth as her eyes watered, leaving the wine glass to hit the rug beneath her.

“Don’t do that, Charlotte,” Charles said, tossing his glass across the room and into a plant’s pot. “I plan on taking that rug and I don’t want to use your arm to comb out the shards of glass.”

“You traitorous bastard of a nephew,” William calmly rumbled through gritted teeth.

Charlotte could only manage a scream. “James!”

“Is that the butler’s name? I never could remember it,” Charles admitted whimsically. “It doesn’t matter though. I imagine he’s being tied up and beaten by my associates right now."

“You goddamn fool!” William yelled over the sound of Charlotte's sorrowful wails.

“Listen, uncle, I don’t want to risk getting blood all over my new things, so I’d appreciate you not encouraging me to drag a blade across your face,” Charles said, lightly grazing the couch with his fingers. “I’m disappearing for a while. I was kind enough not to kill father and decent enough to drop mother off at the hospital on my way here. Their things are mine now. Their plush lifestyle is all bundled up, beautifully massacred by their beloved son. Tragic? Maybe. Depends on who’s writing history, don’t you think? Well, I’ll have you know that I stole all their pens. Ha. Bully for me.”

Charlotte wept, as William backed closer to the window.

“You maniac,” William said, raising his voice to a strange level of fear and fury.

“Perhaps,” Charles said indifferently, pulling the rope that had been tucked into the back of his pants. “But I’m about to get rich the old-fashioned way. Call me an industrialist if you must, but I simply won’t be part of this simpleton party announcing itself as the traditional upper class.”

Several men in black clothes and masks entered the room.

“Now, if you could both please step to your left and towards this charming rope I’m holding, I shouldn’t have to ask my friends to let loose in your very lovely sitting room. They can be such rude guests if you let them.”

"slam poets in the back of a bus"

"slam poets in the back of a bus"
considering music integrity by jake kilroy.

slam poets in the back of a bus,
letting the wheels roll away,
letting the metal scrape the asphalt,
letting their necks crane forward.

an exalted rush of blood to the brain.
a pinched nerve, struck like a piano key.
teeth grinding as the windows break
and the yellow paint gets carved away.

this is the hype that you told us the rumors
you expelled from the lungs,
the dirty lies you loved to cough up
and say there was a tumor in your chest.

this is the mesmerizing world you told us about,
the one that was supposed to explain it all.
one more tremendous car crash after another,
slamming so quickly that it sounds like music;
just one more orchestra we let burn to death.

"my beautiful beach of noise"

"my beautiful beach of noise"
done right before a saturday midnight by jake kilroy.

my beautiful beach of noise,
with the railroad tracks
and the boombox jams;
the crashing waves of phone calls
and boring afternoon movies,
coming in and out,
slamming the door,
shutting the window,
muffling the snore of a lover,
dimming the laughter of neighbors,
trapping the blasting sound of quiet.