"The Autumn Magician"

"The Autumn Magician"
written somewhere between springtime and insomnia by jake kilroy.

Dearest magician, when will the autumn wind come? I have many questions for the gods that will pose as the only one come a Halloween storm. Surely you've tasted the salt of summer skin, only to spit it up after drinking too much rum on a winter's frosty bed.

I can't remember what my last lover's mouth tasted like, so I will assume it was like spring air, something thin and perfect. Every good lover's mouth tastes like a childhood candy from a holiday you only barely remember anyway.

Every sleepless night is from too many memories or too little to count. What shall we play on the projector? Home movies? Snuff films? What will make you feel worse?

Oh, the accidents of autumn, the paralyzing kisses of breakneak winter giggles, so lustfully quiet and begging to be warmed into a polite fire. Come the new year, we will have no reasons for magic. Yes, it must be frustrating to walk tightropes, but if you're not risking a fall to earth, then you're allowing yourself to walk the world forever.

Can you stand that? Don't think of your nice jackets. Don't think of your fun mixtapes. Don't think of your lovely words that you drop like spare change on lovers that aren't worth your time. Buy them all the goods and treat them bad. Let them know the worse of it all. Let them wallow in memories and delirium.

And drink rum. Drink rum until you can't taste your food. Let your cheekbones burn like rust. Let time age you like dried fruit. Let your stomach ache until all that can sustain you is laughter.

But don't ever forget the changing leaves that are coming, even as your summers grow shorter and you have less time to swim. Even as you give up skateboarding and bike rides, remember that your summer nights aren't the best worst sting to your heart. Remember that there is a season that makes you feel magnificently indifferent and spectacular in ways you didn't know your soul was awake enough to rattle on about. There is some spooky winds coming and it isn't always the right time to stay in bed for those crashing evenings. Well, if you do stay in bed, be sure to invite someone over. Spend the weekend there. Don't say much. Wait until winter to grow cold and hold out until spring to talk.

Finally, think of carnivals. And remember the sinking feelings you've had from heartache and roller coasters before allowing them to dissolve in a liquid you didn't ever really consider blood. It was thinner, closer to red wine, though hardly drinkable.

Got it? Good.

Then you may now write your poem about magic and abandon childhood.

My Brother's Rules to Owning a Dog #3

“Will you please stop calling him ‘dumb’ and ‘bum?” - my mother

[my brother leans down into Charlie's face]

"Hey Charlie, you eat your own poop? Do you? No, of course you don’t because you’re a genius apparently. Hey genius, say something. Anything. Say anything you want right now. Hey, what’s two plus two, genius? Oh, you don't know? But you have to. You're a genius." - my brother

"You're such a jerk." - my mother

I Think I Have The Plague

Hey, what's it called when you have a malfunctioning nose and a sore throat for over two weeks and then get into an escalating coughing fit that leads to being unable to swallow and then almost throwing up? Is that the plague? Because I think I may have the plague.

All I know is that I was calmly reading a comic book and then, the next moment, I thought I was going to die in my bathroom naked (I was getting ready to take a shower). Do you know how stupid I would've looked? Lying on a tile floor naked in my own vomit with Batman right there. Batman! The most bad-ass dude of all-time, just sitting there. Batman saves everyone! And he just lets me die right there next to him, like a son of a bitch.

Ugh. I'd be so mad. I mean, shit, if it was Archie or Jughead, who fuckin' cares? Those guys couldn't save a carnival. Trust me, I know. I read that issue. Somehow, Jughead traded some carnival winnings for food or something. Totally surprising, right? Why they ever put that Jughead in charge of anything is beyond me. Or, actually, they're all pretty dense. Especially Moose. Except Dilton. He's pretty on top of things, now that I think about it. But, really, was Riverdale founded by all of the village idiots who were kicked out of their towns? Everybody in that town, from Jughead's dumb bitch sister Jellybean to rich tycoon asshole Mr. Lodge, was so goddamn stupid. Also, what year is there anyway? Archie drives his jalopy to the milkshake diner where he texts on his cell phone? Are the writers fucking retarded? That's the 1920s, the 1950s and the 2000s! Is Riverdale in some kind of loophole of time and space? Are they in some other dimension that I don't know about? Why hasn't Stephen Hawking addressed this in one of his many books that I have faithfully ignored?

Oh god...

Is rambling a symptom of the Bubonic Plague? Fuck! Because I was totally just rambling a second ago!

AH! What about hypochondria?! IS THAT A SYMPTOM? FUCK! I'VE GOT THAT TOO! OH FUCK, MAN, I THINK I'M GOING TO DIE!

SHIT! HOW ABOUT PARANOIA!?! IS THAT A SYMPTOM?!?!

WHAT ABOUT TOO MUCH PUNCTUATION?!?!?!?!?

OH NO! FUCK! FUCK! CHRIST ALMIGHTY, DID YOU READ MY LAST SENTENCE?!?!? THERE'S SO MUCH PUNCTUATION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHAT ABOUT USING ALL CAPITAL LETTERS?!?!?!?!?!!!!!!!!!!!?!?!?!?!?! I BET IT IS!!!

AND NOW I'M USING BOLD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'M A GONER FOR SURE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I FUCKING HATE THE PLAGUE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Seriously though, I almost threw up sober for the first time in a decade tonight. It was very exciting, despite, you know, my whole paranoid assumption that I was going to surely die naked in my own vomit with Batman. I should've never stopped watching Grey's Anatomy or Scrubs because I should be dead right now.

Charlie, Jake & Joni

Tonight, I was too tired to go on a long walk with my dog. So, instead, we walked to the park and then hopped in the car. With Charlie's head out the window, we drove our usual stroll instead of walking it, listening to Joni Mitchell.

The Greatest Ad I've Ever Seen

In an article called "The Greatest Ad I've Ever Seen, Slate writer Seth Stevenson suggests this World Cup ad may be just that. And it's pretty hard to disagree.

Conversation -> FIGHTING!

I'm finding myself halfway through fights with women before:

1) I even know why we're fighting.

2) I even know that we're fighting.

It's like walking into this lovely little cafe that has the dankest sandwich and delicious petite fries and then all of a sudden, the awnings give way and the hanging plants disappear and BAM. IT'S A MOTHERFUCKING UFC CAGE! Oh, where's that beverage you ordered? "FUCK YOUR LEMONADE!" CHUCK LIDELL TELLS YOU BEFORE KICKING YOU IN THE DICK. "Did you want to sit outside on the patio?" the maitre'd asks. "Yeah, sure," you reply calmly. TOO BAD! BY "PATIO," I HOPE YOU MEANT BEING SLAPPED AROUND LIKE A PRISON BITCH BY B.J. PENN. Oh, you want corn chowder soup? WE DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE FUCK THAT IS!

Whoa.

Either I should figure out women a little bit better or I should actually start watching UFC to figure out just how realistic this post is.

Either I should figure out women a little bit better or I should start watching UFC to figure out how realistic this post is.

The Only Way

Sometimes, skylines at night look like the best place to end up in the world and bridges at sunset are the only way to get there.

The Coming Summer

Usually when summer comes, I have, like, a thousand plans, ranging from little things like "grab as many titties as possible" to giant things like "spend a month in Europe." And, really, when it comes down to it, the majority are open threats, empty promises and travel plans. Sometimes, it's things like "go to the beach until I get tan" and then, other times, it's more like "give up on getting tan and just hanging out in a ton of jacuzzis with chicks." Maybe a bit of "do a shitload of freelance work" or "destroy the industry of poetry." I don't know. I sorta-kinda just wing it, you know?

But, this year, I'm not feeling so ambitious. Aside from swim in pools as much as possible and take as many backyard naps as I can (which are both givens), here are my plans for summer:

1) Write at the library.

2) Read in bed.

3) Play basketball.

4) Go jogging with my dog.

5) Work on and finish every project (literary or musical) I have going on right now.

6) Do a killer road trip through the Dirty South with Viking Dick.

7) Grab titties by the handfuls, maybe stuff 'em in my pocket, sell 'em on eBay or something when I'm done with 'em.

8) Quit life and end up in Seattle indefinitely, so I can swim every day and write every night while boozed up on Bloody Marys or red wine.

9) Buy a one-way ticket to Australia, score a kick-ass loft in Darling Harbor and become a well-paid novelist with my mega-hot semi-artist ladyfriend who I have an open relationship with but she stays totally devoted to me only and doesn't care about double standards, like, at all, while I gallivant around the city as a man-about-town.

10) Kill a person.

Ah, see, I screwed it up again. I got all ambitious again and stuff.