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Tuesday, November 1, 2016

New Poem - Hoodoo - and some housekeeping

(peeks at website)
(grabs a broom and sweeps up the cobwebs)

Hey.

Been a busy time.    The Patreon site and my official website have been posting continuous updates on the past few months, creatively.

Here's some updates -

The Pirate Song - I recorded a high quality version and it's available to stream on this site or you may purchase it on Bandcamp!

A new poem - (again, new for non - Patreon folk)  At this point, you're a fool if you don't snatch up the chance to view over 500 pieces of creative content PENNIES a day. Do it now!


HOODOO


Where your

bottle trees?


You bring your

maw-maw

all the way

up this here parish

and it's like you're holding

a yard sale

for wickedness.


You got trees. Get them bottles.


String em up, face em east.

Sun'll burn those demons out like

skeeters.



What that?


Ain't no demons

in your lil camelback shack?


Aww.

You're cute.


Lucky you -

I've got my book

'o spells:


We ain't gonna

pass by your sister's

'til we read together

some Psalm one-o-one.

Friday, August 12, 2016

New Poem - Wet Cement

Hey.

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!  



WET CEMENT

Clinker:

The raw, inert 
guts
poured into a bucket.

Activated 
with common water.
(too little
and the end result
cracks)

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
men,
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
progenitors
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!

Hey.

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

Love,

Jara

Sunday, July 24, 2016

New Poem - Oneironaut

Hey.

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

ONEIRONAUT

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

There are ghosts
Suffering
Between the minute
Atoms
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.

And
In my own
Frequent confrontations
With the wizened
Night-Incubus,
I act as script supervisor.

Surely,
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.

Rather,
I craft another,

Shadow following shadow.

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

New Poem - Beowulf


Hey.

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

BEOWULF

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
Equivocation
Each message, each suspicion-speech
Brings.

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
Night.

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,
Kennings,
Cannot eke out sanctuary.

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

Brock Turner.
Beowulf.

Be it
"twenty minutes
of action"
or
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

Hey.

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...

TARAHUMARA

That is not
our name,

You clap,
Witnessing.

We are merely
Rarámuri -

"runners on foot".

There is no
Need

For praise.
Do you cheer

The sunrise for its
Steadfast work?

Or the simple turkey
For the food they make?

Once,
We were farmers, race -hunters.

Before Narcos.
Before their money.

Before the rain
Became

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.

Swallowed
By the Estrados Unidos.

Our history,
Our huaraches,

Now covered
In drugs and mud

And blood-marked
Beasts.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

New Poem - Praying Mantis

Hey.

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
today!

www.patreon.com/jara

PRAYING MANTIS

There's just
One mating cycle

A single episode
Where life must tear itself

Away
From the ticking clock

And
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
Body.

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

Her fresh,
Restorative meal.

She simply
Must feed.