"showroom"

"showroom"
written profoundly and lazily by jake kilroy.

imagine a museum with portraits on fire.
and i'll just let you write the poem.

"when the time came"

"when the time came"
written just 'cause by jake kilroy.

when the trees finally blossomed,
she spoke of soil, and i spoke of lust,
and nothing ever sounded like the truth that season.
i was busy waiting for college radio stations to return,
and she was waiting by the sea, hoping for waves,
to swim against, to crash and sink into, to swallow whole
and become a mermaid with an impressive record collection.

back on land, she and i tore the house apart, looking
for that one photograph of us laughing stupidly in bed
some morning that i made breakfast without making a mess
and she found an art gallery that wouldn't bore her to tears.

we left the drugs in the drawer, the wine in the trunk,
and it was the last time we ever spoke of a trip to tokyo,
since we saw what was coming, over and over again,
so we commented on the portraits of kings and queens,
and we slept in the forest, and we ate at a cafe by the beach,
so she could watch the ocean and i could see the mountains,
and we sighed with the colors of our souls sweeping up
into the clouds, into the sky, into the great worlds beyond,
but we didn't notice
because we couldn't bare to look at each other.

"the road through south county"

"the road through south county"
written true by jake kilroy.

my engine yelled harsh like a barroom brawler
as my tires pushed their way through the crowd
and i let my hair wave at the green of south county,
where i noticed the road before me in the drag of my eyes,
as i recalled cruising it once many years ago in a mustang,
smoking a cigarette then, just as i smoked one now,
to rescue a girl from a barbecue a city or two over,
because i had nothing better to do than be a hero back then.

and when i swept her off her feet in the passenger seat,
we took in the heat and brought our own, as we ended up
on a balcony that didn't belong to us, breathing sunshine,
before devouring a pitcher of poorly made margarita,
just because we could then, long before we had senses
and needed reasons to love and abandon and hail freedom.

so i'm spending this day ear-deep in new order and the pixies,
to keep the memory alive of a drive that meant nothing then,
but later came to weigh down the heart, in a springtime breeze,
of a working man hellbent on nostalgia and an afternoon swim.

"criminal chants"

"criminal chants"
written inside my own throat by jake kilroy.

coming out of a post-hardcore scene from texas,
a group within a culture within a generation
swallowed microphones and bled out music notes,
with the emotions clawing at their throats to escape,
carrying the torch from the lungs and the heart
stomping out the past to sunshine, welcoming a cave exit,
waving every flag available and singing criminal chants,
all with spiritual text weighing them down like carcasses,
for the centuries blew away like pages ripped or torn,
with cancer drinking too much with scorn and faith,
and it was only ever red, red, red, read, read, read again,
until the time came when the road ended in an ivory cliff.
so the words parachuted into the world beyond, laughing.

5/10: The Stranger

The Stranger, by Albert Camus

3/5 stars

This is my 5th book in Rex & Jake's 50-Book Reading Challenge,

which Rex leads 10-5. Full list can be found here.

How can anyone love or hate this book? It's like loving or hating shoelaces or that character actor who always plays fathers or politicians. It doesn't make sense. What is there to love? Is it the lack of motivation for anything but playful conversational narrative? What is there to hate? Is it the lack of motivation for anything but playful conversational narrative?

I get it (sort of). This book inspired a Cure song ("Killing An Arab"), and everyone loves The Cure to some degree, but, let's be honest here, that's not enough. A French guy in his twenties bangs his girlfriend and doesn't care, writes a letter to an insane chick for his friend and doesn't care, and puts his mother in a home and doesn't care. He's not a bad guy. He's just a guy. He just exists.

WELL, GOOD FOR HIM. BUT THAT'S NOT ENOUGH FOR SOME OF US, CAMUS, YOU BEGRUDGINGLY QUIET FRENCH EGOTIST.

Some of us like to read about people who do things for reasons (as Vonnegut once paraphrasingly said, "Every character in your story should want something, even if it's a glass of water"). Sure, this was the start of a movement that was more than despondency but not quite nilhilsm, and right on for that, but I need more depth to the past, present, and future of a man being a man. Still, it was well-written as a first-person narrative, so I enjoyed it, but I couldn't point out anything to a hot babe and say, "Yeah, this is what really got me."

Now how am I supposed to discuss the book with babes, Camus?

"Oh, did you enjoy the font?"

"Did you like how the main character was male?"

"What was your favorite long paragraph about him just walking about?"

Fuck you, Camus. You've doomed me and legions of other dudes trying to nail abstract European artist-type babes who just smoke cigarettes and have more desire for good Chinese takeout than commitment.

YOU. DICK.

p.s. I have to admit, it was interesting to be entertained by a book about nothing (think Seinfeld or Bukowski fiction without any sense of humor, just straight up meandering). Also, there actually being consequences to societal indifference is a pretty wild deal when you consider it. I mean, a lack of compassion without malice actually being extraordinarily frowned upon is something to behold. But, still, if some glossy dead-in-the-eyes smokin' hot babe was into this, how am I to connect with her, huh, Camus? By being just as nonchalant as she is in the hypothetical skimpy sundress she's wearing but not giving a flying fuck about? How do American twenty-something layabouts connect with ridiculously attractive poetesses if flirting is too much interest and eye contact might not be enough? TELL ME, YOU GODDAMN FRENCHIE LUNATIC. Sorry, sorry. That was out of line. I'm sure I'll figure it out. I BETTER, OR ELSE. Sorry, sorry. Totally did it again. Ah well. C'est la vie.

HOLY SHIT, THIS ENTIRE BOOK IS "C'EST LA VIE."

Nailed it.

"the young"

"the young"
written after an education by jake kilroy.

with heartbeat like a punk song
and a wit like fragile shards of glass,
i got educated in trivia nights at bars
before marching through offices
to see the pacific ocean.

i struggled in my youth,
as i thought philosophy was like a balloon,
meant to carry you away to see the big picture,
and it took me years to consider it a brick,
there to heavy your hand in an american riot.

what was great for the pope, i thought,
would be grand for the pauper,
but what good is silk to a starving man?

and that's when i started writing poetry.

Dear Diary, Love Danny

For those of you who don't know, I keep a blog specifically for my co-worker whenever she's having a bad day. I write posts on my lunch break, and it actually helps my creativity for work. I only update it sporadically, though it should be more regular. Anyway, it's about the very tragic and unfortunate adventures of Danny, a character somehow fully capable of depression and apathy at the same time.

I give you...Dear Diary, Love Danny

Three Questions I'd Ask As A Pageant Judge

Like all good jobs, such as freelance candy eater, executive porn game tester, bitch manager, I don't think there's any real chance of me ever becoming a professional question-asker for the beauty pageant circuit, but, if I did, here are three hard-hitting questions I'd ask:

• "Now, Miss...Oklahoma, is it? Ok, please summarize the ending of Lost for me in precisely 14 words. You have ten seconds."
• "Miss Nebraska, when should pimps get out of the game? Is there a point of no return or is it up to the bitches?"
• "Miss Ohio, is there a god or not? Make your decision and prove your case."

"deadbeats"

"deadbeats"
written with exhaustion by jake kilroy.

with these grand libraries of catalogued regrets
and the dirty laundry lists of songs, movies, and books
that twenty-somethings can't hear, watch, or read anymore,
you'd think that these college grads would know better
when they claim they built empires as teenagers.

as if the cocaine couldn't speak for itself,
as if the notepads wouldn't cough up secrets,
as if the closets would ever let photographs burn,
the world has to admit that it's going to be lead one day
by romantics posing as priests posing as poets posing as junkies,
all under the weather, holding an umbrella they call "youth."

these are small talks cutting themselves up as philosophy.
like snowflakes done in a kindergarden class before christmas,
this is ease and convenience dressed up as depth and magnificence.
using art as an excuse and galleries as distractions,
these are consumers that bought pens and paintbrushes
to sit on their shelves only to point to them
whenever they need a lover or an escape.

there are words that are the bulk of feigning wisdom (see clichés).
shall we keep doing this until our mouths are dry?
what then, we speak of wandering the desert?
we know pain. we invented the word.
we just didn't experience the sensation.
these are controlled burns at best.
at worst, it's just one more artist
who thinks he's a martyr
who thinks he's a saint
who thinks he's a god
who thinks he's a man
who thinks he's an artist.

"red lipstick"

"red lipstick"
while listening to advertising music and wondering by jake kilroy.

when the coast turned in its winter's nap,
i hopped from one state to another,
pitched on a mountain that came down
like i did several years ago after a few long parties
and a summer that filled my lungs with confetti.
the land waved and winked with the citizens in air,
hearing the great rumble of slow-motion advertising
tickling hearts and seducing brains and languishing
forever, for all time, with sunglasses
that were on sale at the gas station
you only ever see in movies
about kids becoming adults
becoming heroes
becoming glowing light.

she was becoming,
the one who wore red lipstick without it ever out of place.
how many women can say that?

sure, i was a better man once,
which is the emptiest batch of words
you could cook up for any occasion,
but this accordion mouth hasn't played a song right
since my parents got rid of their record player
just months before they stomped their way back in style.

dearest goddesses of burden, remember her,
the one who wrote ad copy and could wear anything,
that woman i thought i was head over heels for
that turned out to be head over heels for me?
even after all those literary classics and western films,
the best i did was show up drunk with bubble gum
and play the youth card like i was trying out regret.
she was older than i was, and that was something,
since i was already wearing my years like a denim jacket,
nearly beaten to death with holes looking like roses.

she rolled like the coastline
and opened her eyes like the future.
i swore to christ with one hand
and threw the champagne with the other,
the last night i stayed over
and helped her forget me.

this is what will go to my imaginary grave
the next time i go to bed wanting
even though i've had my fill
and couldn't stomach another.