Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Jake Hajer

Vaquero And Hustlers

Plumes foam from
a land beaten;
A vaquero with a cloud
splitting whip;
when dirt rolls around in him.
Everywhere, rocks would rather
erode than catch fire.

He picks off
brown toughs sprouting
through rotten planks of the fun maze.

Velvet and satin soak up
sweat, remove itas a girl dabs what
held her in.
Arms more confident
than anything real.

She ropes lust
with the toss of tresses
in a room perfumed
of moldy oak, skin on
unwashed sheets, and
sand burning.

He keeps an eye out
the window at the dressing
room below;
The thieves powdering
actor’s rouge and admiring
in the mirror what
burns while sleeping.

A Season To Remember

Colors change as armies
of hearts retreat to frosty tips
and the safety of barbed wire.

A season where each day is
X’d off as bloody as possible.

The very grass frauds,
fumes and freezes.
Peat smokes brain cells dead.

They say scored of scotch.
They say other things.

Moving fast when you don’t
want them to.
—Funny or beautiful things
in our nerdy warbling.

Too much measuring of things;
Too many right answers,
wasting my damn time.

You should tell your friends
of this season.
Use some dumb metaphor,
like a tree;
A little thicker, knows a few
more squirrels, hands out
rotten acorns to seed seasons.

Perpetual emotion of a season
that will bite, burn and bruise you.
-Sticks and stones taking
chunks and leaving divots.

The point is to forget
why you started drinking.
A true punk;
The remains of a season
to remember.


Fawning frumpy;
A little backyard fruit tree
leaning over.
Crumpling pastel
in a cracked trunk
with nic-knack-heirlooms
fungused together and
broken apart, only through

Hiding in shadows between
trees like hanging dresses.
Dancing hapless of step
ending when no one
cares, which is to say
glad to have called a cab home.

The band’s drunk
huddled and hoarse.

Twirling for a spinning
room as manipulative
as an accident.

The deer-like animal’s thin legs
distracting spots—

Prancing over as violently
quiet as a still dropping
Eyes lighting up for
A dropped head—

My breaths wiggle
with her into the
underworld of impossibility;

Where things can no longer
be let go, but must be
broken free—

My little darling,
wobbling flowering fawn,
we’re just embarrassment away
from love.

Sweaty Puppet

It’d be easier if there wasn’t
even a glove,
and when I thought
you twitched.

Fire growing
in a Marxist nightmare.

Your brain as printer paper—
And doves in droves
of laughter.

Sweat’s dripping down
to pool on the concrete.

-all poems previously published at Frigg Magazine

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