The rain happens suddenly, bringing dark air and wet streets. I feel mist on my face standing under patio, absorbing the dense wind, sensing the future out there among the drops slowly burrowing back into the earth. Tomorrows that once seemed obscure become real again as I watch the thick moisture glisten on everything, lathering my landscape with a slick film. There is life in the wet night, and I am a part of a world that swirls and wobbles forward in time, out of nonsense, into something incomprehensible and magnificent. I watch it all silently. Listening. There is a song in the storm.
It was eighty degrees in Houston for Christmas. Something sinister about sticky December air; sacrilege would be apropos. It disgusts me. I paid someone one hundred dollars to hang Christmas lights; they were half-hung, the boxes discarded in my bushes–I never got around to turning them on. The kids didn’t mind, they greeted me with open arms after being at their mothers for five days. Everything is just off. Nothing feels right. Someone scolds me that it is the new normal, my new reality, telling me I need to “learn to live with it.” I can’t help but think about the weather, hoping for another cold wind, something that will blow away all the residue of the past, a hard freeze to sanitize my life, leave me trembling on back porch stamping out cigarettes with rigid fingers. It is safe to say that it wasn’t a good year. Everything kind of fell apart, but in the process I discovered something under the surface, a different person, alive but out of place even amongst friends. The process of shedding my skin is a work in progress. Every day I find new ways to read tea leaves and construct cave paintings articulating my failure as I ache and twist into something newer, different, shell-shocked and disappointed. I yearn to find a cooler place, among those who know my secrets, can decipher my riddles, always prodding, pushing me into new places. Ah…but I wait, reading the forecast, waiting for a change in the weather, waiting for the words to fall from the sky, sitting listening to the air conditioner churning its strange song. Next week it will be colder–everything will be better.
Jasper Kerkau (Sudden Denouement Literary Collective)
[Photo: Ian Curtis]
i burn from inside – jasper kerkau
charred embers of my desire
hands pressed against the flesh of your stomach
seared and consumed by taste of your lips
twisted and spun into one–
the soft moist longing,
devoured by the fragrance of your
i starve in your presence–
sick with desire
yearning for your soft, naked center.
crucified and resurrected with one touch
buried in bosom,
gasping for the taste
sweet nectar of
fire pressed against fire–
Nov 21 2016
The sky rumbles, the wet smell of calamity broods on the horizon. Domestic fires glow in fireplace; meals are scraped into trash—soothing waves of time lap at my naked feet, reclined in chair, unaware of the great journey, unprepared to place soft heel on coarse ground and drudge into the coiling madness, unnecessarily acquainted with discomfort and solitude.
Ah, the righteous path! It comes quickly: fury and merciless tragedy thrust me into a great comedy of unexpected sadness—lost and silent, woefully unprepared for the world on new terms. I learned to live on nothing, bitter flowers plucked and left under pillow, clay and dry-bone extracted from a lie. The nectar of life that wets my lips sours, a harsh vinegar churned with cold hands!
Who are you now–after being lost? The shrill voice of self-doubt wakes me from the great slumber. I place my ear to the ground and hear the vibrations of a life lost, years wasted—words traded for shiny rocks and bits of paper, meaningless! Meaningless! My soul is in the valley where I sit silently listening to the slow rotation of the earth, the everlasting song that only the enlightened hear. It beckons me.