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Spilling Life |
by Jake Walker
This is life as it spills onto the page
Not from a demi-god,
Nor from saint, nor seer, nor sage
But from he who holds his qualities bare
And with a seeming innocuous charm and air; Yes,
He who throws back what was plopped in his hands
And with a reflecting of such, shows his own plans
This is existence: a bullet, taking
The path of least resistance
This is its pain: a pounding on
Condensed, self-hating brain
This is its death: the finality
Of embracing one's breath
And then once more, it's birth:
Finding in street urchins and dejected
Whores, souls of equal worth-
This is life as it takes form in a warm
Bloodied mass
A life that marks its success
Through classes, money and kissing ass
My life pools behind me
Leaking from my heels
And I've invented everything for it;
The rockets, the tea, the cards it deals
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Jan. 18th, 2010 |
by Jake Walker
Quick game of catch and already
There's that mile long stare-
My little warrior-his yellow ball
Spotted all over with transformers
And what utility! What utility!
Who would've thought he was kicker?
He swings his leg-the foot connects
The ball sails happily, over my head
As if in utter compliance to the rules
Mandated by a six-year-old
A Joyful sound his laugh is
In seeing his effect on natural laws
Although he may not know them
He exerts his full force unto their
Manipulation
Tucking his shirt in to keep
His pants from sagging too low
And his pockets bunny ear,
Spilling over,
As if to seal the pristine image
Of sacred boyhood, its zeal,
Its timelessness, its vigor
Its raw, vital power
Are we in the cleft of middle America?
Two boys tossing a ball?
One is a son, the other
A father and son-and is this
What we do-someone who knows not,
Teaching and leading and guiding someone
Who knows even less?
The patches of snow that remain from December
Are constant reminders of Nature's perseverance
The white parcels remain stubbornly as ice
On the lawn-
A mother and child stroll slow beside us
To take out the trash, and I ask
Is this love, fulfilling our role?
Is this love?
Is this love?
Jake Walker is a charlatan. At 22 years of age, he has the startling
talent of pissing people off continuously. He writes because he loves
the written word, though it might not always love him back. He sees it
as a cruel yet still tempting mistress. His first book of poems, The
Basket Case, is available at Lulu.com, and he maintains a blog at
www.sykoflea.wordpress.com.
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