Hey!

This is Jake. Raised by handsome wolves, Jake is an award-winning journalist and wild-mannered partygoer who likes to write.

"Funny"

"funny"
written on a plane heading home 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 surrealists let the skyscrapers talk down to 'em, 
i found myself waiting on women to touch my skull like a piano—
a cave-like church of euphony where soft presses on thoughts count
as rock art dolled up like 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.

still, 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,
we come at the world like a tidal wave we sewed ourselves.

you see, destiny was never only for ancient warriors.
doom just makes for a less jealous audience.
meanwhile, wildflower crowns make for better use of battlefields,
and so we sneer at the decaying lovers we only cherish
as the weapons they made us,
trying on bounties like boaters, framing ourselves as the victims.

oh, how the years wear well!
when i was young, i was both rodeo and stampede.
i could hardly keep my eyes tucked in
for any new bedtime story that cracked ear to ear and 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 i finally powered down,
and my memories were no longer string theory.
hell, they were hardly even decor.
memories became a stockpile,
making me a survivalist
in a one-man show.
funny way to throw a party.

yet,
even in another country,
alone in a splintering tavern,
i could say life came at me quick.
sure, i held on for as long as i could
before it threw me into the sea
where i came upon a passing sailboat of monks
that i mistook for a pirate ship of mermaids,
gleefully drowning myself by wearing out my arms in cheer—
funny way to exit the world, i imagine, 
curious, cackling, and crazy—
but i was always relentless,
forever sweating boredom
and making amends with the wildcard pneuma
that i often mistook for a hired gun asleep at the wheel.
see, even in death, i'd hear myself out.
at least do that.
at least die truthfully.

"The Patron Saint of Empty Gas Tanks"