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]

Spiral of Desire – Jasper Kerkau


Spiral of Desire – Jasper Kerkau

Our teeth clash as we push through each other, interlaced fingers, hearts beating in unison. Spiraling into a desperate battle to push back the throbbing loneliness, long car rides—alone in the world, we each struggle to overcome the sadness of the solitude of years wasted in fear, agoraphobic nightmares; the naked world has to be kept in musty closets. It is just easier to be alone, easier than bearing the cross of soul-defiling disappointment, hands trembling, skin contracting with the pounds that vanished under the weight of shattered love.

We fumbled with clothes, diving into sheets, giggling at the awkwardness of it all, secretly dreading the disappointment that is surely right around the corner, the paranoia, the conversations with self in bathroom, standing in front of door, gaining the courage to face the world again: “Everything is going to be alright; I have done this before…this pain is nothing new.” There is a shadow in the corner, peering at me, sneering, years of disillusionment, missed connections, things started that could never be finished, the lump in the throat, the seething that drives fearful souls back into the world of words—“next time it will be different.”

Her fragrance burns my soul, sweet sulfur, an ephemeral elixir that will both liberate and destroy me. “Give me a second,” embracing her, touching my hand to hers, kissing her softly, embracing the moment, knowing that we are both broken, incapable of burying ourselves in the lives of another.  The explosion of desire is easy, it is the layers of life that we attempt to place on top of each other that makes us more vulnerable—a new organism much more likely to implode and cannibalize itself, leaving lost souls to sit in rooms, scattered and withdrawn. We find a common place, a desire that may, for a moment, drive back the dark forces of solitude that are forever on the march, forever looking to conquer another vanquished soul.

Jasper Kerkau

nov. 14 2016



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
teeth clashing
twisted and spun into one–
the soft moist longing,
under lace,
of passion
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
of your
sweet nectar of
fire pressed against fire–


jasper kerkau
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.

Jasper Kerkau


This is the post excerpt.


Would I give up my torment for a better life?  Trade my constricted words for laughter at restaurants with jovial sorts with funny handshakes and antidotes about country life. I could chemically alter the color of my walls and meet a charming girl with a big smile and hearty laugh who will take down all my art, replace it with funny phrases painted on plaques made out of driftwood. She could lead my around by my thumb, put me in pastel shirts and feed me to a congregation of hungry Mexican food eating Presbyterians  with good intentions. Maybe I could work up to being a people person and start watching the weather, get a favorite sports team and have heated arguments with co-workers over draft picks.

Could I sacrifice my darkness for happiness? I could let my doctor have his way, cleanse my mind, lose Thomas Wolfe, the eternal quest for home, the desire to walk among the downtrodden, handing in my bona fides for junk food culture and political identification which leads to more arguments. Maybe I could just catch my breath, become acquainted with the recliner, let my troubles wash away, turn from the wicked, press my face against institutional carpet, let God’s mercy pour over me as I bask in the glow of chemically manifested nothing. They are circling me with lab coats, wanting to squeeze all the labored thought out of me, but what will I have left? I stand with darkness!

Jasper Kerkau