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Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Jacob Alias


When the music's over, turn out the lights.

When the music's over, turn out the lights.

Is the music over, Jacob Alias? What do you hear now, as you wither behind sterile cinder block walls and trace the spaces between the cold steel bars...your crime, spreading joy for the hopeleas-loving the loveless. Fear not compadre...your years are young.

I hear nothing...the sweet deafening sound of nothing as I draw a deep breath from the icy air and trace the long shadows of my embittered wife with the blood of a dying heart. My crime, stealing joy from the delicate garden of her heart...loving her loveless soul.



When the music's over, turn out the lights.



Was it over for dear Jim, tbe lost lonely Door, as he slipped lazily down the drain at last, back into the womb of the LA Woman?



Dear friend, our song begins to end the moment it hits the turntable. Our hearts begin to break with the first beat...our lives begin to end the very second we are born.



I know this also to be true, Jacob Alias...



It is not time that kills us with its heavy thoughtless march. No, the sour, often subtle songs of life are what kill us as we bide our time in this mad world...the sudden dissonant dives that slice through our symphony, shattering the movement, carrying us, breathless, ever closer to the barren earth from which we came. For a time we dust ourselves off, rebuild, rewrite, rise from the dead. We crawl again, we walk again, we love, we fuck, we fly again. We crash again. And again. Then comes the hour, Jacob Alias, for each of us, when the music's over. Then comes the final dawn when the sunlight no longer aids our vision, but merely burns our eyes and dries up our dreams. I am a parched and blind drunkard on a Sunday morning. If I cannot taste her love again then let me remain this way.



I told you old friend...I cannot love anymore. I cannot even fuck..I can't be bothered. I do not care that I cannot love or fuck. Should  I care that I do not care?



I am writing you now (forgive my selfish intent) for fear that soon I will have no words to say. When that day comes I am merely a ghost, Jacob Alias, that has passed through you and left, like a momentary autumn chill.

When that day comes, dearest friend. the music is over...turn out the lights.



Saturday, January 31, 2015

Your Street

2013

To the one and only Sharie...

I remember King Street, age 15
My new home
I remember the payphone...
the black, cold and heartless handle
that I buried in its bracket
when Mother cursed and confirmed
my new residence

But your street, my love,
is a darker place
than that cocaine jungle
full of fun-houses and faggots
and cold nights
and cops cars
I'd ask them to arrest me
that I may defrost in a heated room
and find retreat
from the rats that gnawed at my feet
I once promised them a rock through the window of
Canada Trust
if I must

Your street holds no room
for even a cell
in which to survive another night

I always promised myself
that I'd find the morning
if I walked far enough
that there would be Manna
spread out on a dewy lawn
I grew cat's eyes
overnight


Your street, my love,
 holds no such hope for me
Your street is a maze
drawn up in darkness
maintained by misery
and I, in a corner now
as you close in at last
Though I must remind you
that surely my bones
will not be enough
to line your crooked path
to pave your perfect plan
You will need to find another
when I am gone

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

How does my blood taste?

Oh, my bittersweet mongrel dog, how does my blood taste? 
Are the spoils of your hunt spilling over with the sustenance you so
crave?  Is the weight of your task truly a mere afterthought-a labored but brief loss of breath, stinging but subtle salty sweat, a minor cramp in the wake of an incredible orgasm?

I wait, shackled by your curse, a prisoner behind the mile-high windows and the cold concrete walls of the law, gazing out on the row of aged bent birch trees that line the vast entryway to the brooding domain. They stand defiant like war-torn Nazis, rooted fierce against winter's assault. Rugged green English Ivy wraps their trunks like fingerless gloves, disguising every trace of delicate white paper flesh, holding brittle branches fast and firm as they stretch crooked fingers outward, accusing the world just beyond the glorious and vast perimeter. Justice will prevail, they declare, the ancient, steadfast guardians of the sacred chambers within. Justice will prevail, they sneer like the grey-headed blue-suits who bathe in their shadows. 

When alas the trees fall to the torture of time, they will journey deeper into the stone maze to complete their life cycle-the resurrection-to become the very life-blood of truth as we know it. They will rise again, adorned with royal colors, donning the faces of dead old men, numbered and ranked. All hail Mammon. The resurrection, the life, the body and the blood- the blood that was shed for thee by the nameless, the humble, the weak and forgotten. Without thee there is no salvation. Without the sheep, the wolves cannot feast. Without my blood, oh vampire, you will perish.

Again I ask, oh bastard bitch, how does my blood taste?