Monday, June 20, 2016


written on a plane by jake kilroy.

blowing through town as mad as wind on a bender,
heels up on the rails of a city-wide waiting room,
where every artist lets the skyscrapers talk down to ‘em, 
i found myself waiting on women to touch my skull like a piano;
a cave-like church where soft presses on thoughts count
like rock art dolled up as a rare jackson pollock of daydreams.
colorful spirits still die here, don’t worry.
we just have better money for graves these days.
funny i don’t remember the funerals.

oh, what a breathtaking mausoleum for us to dance inside!
a carnival ride, the two of us, spinning colors
only seen when you get up too fast to see someone new,
here we come at the world like a tidal wave we sewed ourselves.
destiny was never only for ancient warriors.
it just makes for a less jealous audience.
all while wildflower crowns make for better use of battlefields,
we sneer at decaying lovers we only cherish
for the weapons they made us.
see, when i was young, i could hardly keep my eyes tucked in
for any new bedtime story that cracked ear to ear beyond
the two dozen good lines about an empty bed in flames.
funny i never saw any sequels.

but then my bones wore down
and my fingers slowed down
when finally i powered down,
and memories were no longer string theory.
hell, they were hardly even decor.
they became a stockpile,
making me a survivalist
in a one-man show.
funny way to throw a party.

even in another country,
alone in a splintering tavern,
i could say life came at me quick
and i held on for as long as i could
before it threw me into the sea
where i found the coast guard
and thought it was a pirate ship of mermaids.
funny way to exit the world, i imagine, 
curious, cackling, and crazy;
but always relentless,
forever sweating the truth.
at least do that.

at least die truthfully.

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