Friday, August 12, 2016

New Poem - Wet Cement


Here's another poem based on a Patreon donor prompt.  There's hundreds of hours of weird, wonderful content on the site; all yours for pennies a day!  



The raw, inert 
poured into a bucket.

with common water.
(too little
and the end result

Hands steady.
We pour.   Somewhere,
A clock's heart throbs.

One day, two (maybe) -
And it's set.

Tending to the surface.
Smoothing out 
the anxious bubbles.

Imprinting our descendant's skin
which preserves for 
half a century, long after
we mere carpenters
surrender our trowels,
our gauge rakes, our 
artisan paddles.

Night.  A shift concluded.
We sleep.

That tabula rasa 
stares expectantly
at the moon, its godmother.

Lovers, vandals, the 
hulk of anonymous
starving for any 
lasting impression,
they too may leave
a mark; scratch out their 
initials, scar this
constructed child
with a careless 
tire print.

We prepare.
We cordon off.
We erect warnings.
We compound with quality materials.
We broker faith in our neighbors.
We fret.  Too many pock-marked
littered with selfish influence.

It's just concrete, you say.

We bow our heads,
casting concern upon 
the  trodden, rough-shod ground
while others amble, cock their chins,

eyes skyward.

Thursday, August 4, 2016

IT'S ALIVE - Jara's Brand-Spanking-New Website!


I've connected all the acting, music, Patreon, and writing (both here and on other forums) to my official site:  !  Give it a spin; let me know what you think...



Sunday, July 24, 2016

New Poem - Oneironaut


Here's a new poem (but super cool Patreon folk got to see it first - you should totally be one of them)


You.  You till
That fertile lie:
What you, sensate,
Clarify as your self-sure
Is binding. True. 

There are ghosts
Between the minute
Of your unswept floor.

The screen
To which you fixate
In hazy surrender
Is not static;
Rather, its canvas
Tears draft upon draft
In rapid succession
Yet the eye
Betrays witness.

The night is a malleable clay.

The day, likewise.

I have seen
Plastic drinking straws
Pierce the hide
Of a brutish white birch tree.

I have crept, silent and custodial, into my mother's dreams.
I straighten the dream-table.
I discard the dream-waste.
I launder the dream-garments.  Hang them to dry on the dream-patio.

In my own
Frequent confrontations
With the wizened
I act as script supervisor.

I challenge,
you've realized
This character,
My father,
Has expired. 

My skin
is not wire-shackled;

An airplane
Cannot guest
A serpent,
Three-headed, rapt
With hunger.

I rub my hands together.
Cradle the dream-beasts.
Mash their form into
A microphone
Or a talk show
Or a bookstore
Or a soundstage
Or a theatre.

I do not accept their false face.

I craft another,

Shadow following shadow.

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

New Poem - Beowulf


Here's a new (well, new for non-Patreon folk)  poem.


The chaos
of the writhing present
is this:

No shadow exists.

Any meter of action,
Whether mired in global friction
Or scrawled inside some antiseptic suburb
Or grunted out
In a airless tradition-territorial,

Will be inhaled.
A limbic frenzy of response will follow.

The object, the analysis of the object,
The rebuttal of the analysis of the object.

It is a beautiful chaos.

Frightened as we are,
We are humbled by the exalted
Each message, each suspicion-speech

The past yields no prism of conjecture.
Rather, the most aggressive narrative
Sticks like pitch,
Like ancestral scars .

Grendel was a monster.

Beowulf, his slayer-savior.

So says the tale.

We nod sagely,
For the writers, the orators
Are honorable men.

Yet silhouetted, faintly,
In that puckered scrawl,
(a hagiography made binding
by a millennium of preservation)

Are unwritten details
Which, if said events unfurled
This present time,
Would not rest in un-eddied

Who creeps
Into a house
of a  grieving mother?

Who kills
A mother
Whose son you've grave-gifted
With her own blade?

Who defiles
The other,
And rather than own
Their brute sentence,
Seeks pity, seeks
Clemency, seeks
Weasel words?

The mask of art,
Cannot eke out sanctuary.

Your tousled hair
And gawky smile
Is not your true face.

Brock Turner.

Be it
"twenty minutes
of action"
Grendel slandered as
"a man outlawed
for wickedness, he must await
the mighty judgement of God in his majesty"

It's pure Anglo-Saxon propaganda.

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

New Poem - Tarahumara


Here's a new (to non- Patreon patrons) donor poem.  To get access to hundreds of content I've made, become a Patreon patron today!  Just pennies a day...


That is not
our name,

You clap,

We are merely
Rarámuri -

"runners on foot".

There is no

For praise.
Do you cheer

The sunrise for its
Steadfast work?

Or the simple turkey
For the food they make?

We were farmers, race -hunters.

Before Narcos.
Before their money.

Before the rain

A writhing ghost.
Made fertile ground dust.

Our children
Were taken.

Not with weapons,
But with a false remedy

For a sick soul.
So├▒aderos and their

Dream medicine
Replaced with money.

The young ones
Lift heavy packs

Of marijuana
And never return.

By the Estrados Unidos.

Our history,
Our huaraches,

Now covered
In drugs and mud

And blood-marked

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

New Poem - Praying Mantis


Here's Amy's (the newest Patron who's taken part in the Patreon Pledge Drive ) poem.

To become a Patron for pennies a day (and to receive all kinds of creative wonders, just click below


There's just
One mating cycle

A single episode
Where life must tear itself

From the ticking clock

If she's starved

If her rutting
Male's too small,

Too trusting,
If he overstays a coital welcome,

She'll size him up
Before, during, or after

Sperm's delivered.
She'll cradle his head,

Facing him,
And with her teeth,

Wrest neck from body.
He'll spasm, limp.

If he's inside her,
His abdomen will pump

Faster - just for a moment,
Sending signals - life, further

Into her flush, extricated

Having come and shuttered,
He lies, inert, as she savors

Her fresh,
Restorative meal.

She simply
Must feed.

Friday, May 13, 2016

Patreon Pledge Drive - Acquiring New Tools


Today's Patreon Free Fare Friday's an immense one: an audio performance track of GHOST ON A STICK .  If you've got 91 minutes of free time, it's an intense treat. Opening music is Playing House - a song of mine, and closing music is "Porcelain", a gorgeous piano piece by Helen Jane Long  Between that's a semi-autobiographical tale of fear, mental health issues, and loss. .

Plus, starting NOW until the end of May, I'm embarking on a Patreon pledge drive.  For over a year now, I've been posting unique, curated artistic content - essays, stories, songs, behind the scenes work in process - question and answer video, poems, and more!

Here's the goal of this pledge drive:  I want to expand the community of artists sharing work and comments on the site.  I also want to upgrade my personal computer from a desktop so old it no longer accepts antiviral support due to chugging along in Window XP (a PC that was gifted to me almost 8 years ago from my buddy Alan Corcoran, who entered my apartment, saw my prior hunk of junk, turned around without saying a word, and returned with a spare computer on hand)

I'm looking for something portable, something I can use to record audio for voice over work, songs. Something I can use to edit and polish videos I make.  I want to bump up the production value for my Patreon work/acting endeavors.

So I'm looking at this :  That means, along with socking away $100 each month in savings, I'm looking to increase funds with new donors (as well as possibly old donors bumping up their pledges)

There's different perks available for specific patron levels - plus, here's a special promotional gift:

No matter what level of donation (either new or an increase to an old pledge), I'll make you a personalized poem based on one word of your choosing.  Here's some examples!





I'll stop screaming.   It's been over an exciting year of stuff-making, and I'd like you to be a part of this community.  To view and become a patron, just click below:

Jara's Patreon