Tuesday, November 25, 2014

New player on ODES AND NONSENSE - King of the Hobos Cast Soundtrack -


There's a cool new player on the website.  You can stream and listen to all of my original songs written for my one man hobo musical: KING OF THE HOBOS .

Heck, if you'd like to keep some of it for your very own, each track's available at Bandcamp for a buck each, and the whole album's as cheap as 7 dollars.  Go to it!

To stay updated on new information about this show, "Like" our Facebook page!

 - Jara

Thursday, November 20, 2014

TFLN Poem - Force, Fallout


Here's this week's poem.



They couple.   The muscles contract.

Force yields.    

I cook in the resolute dark, Nana.

Can’t draw candy until it’s cool and still.
Every stir, every cricket in the mosaic of night,
(that shift and lens of cloud-sight where moon shines
On flakes of dead, whispery skin)

Shapes what I make.
No room for surprise.
You watched your telenovela,
You had your cinnamon tea,
You wrapped your brown, scuffed robe
Against your frame
And you went to bed.
Not to wake until 5 or so.
That’s what’s done.

I closed my eyes.  A moment.  Thought again of
Typing condolence letters in the Green Zone,
Boxes of ash, slightly warm,
Laden on my desk.
Working at night.  I was not prepared
By your footsteps
Or your shadowy hug.
And I’m sorry, Nana.  

It’s just a motion my body makes.
The chocolate seeks optimal care.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

TFLN Poem - Fans, Friends


She dumped me and then asked if I wanted to come to her improv show. Fuck theatre majors, man.

It’s this.
People come in two types.
Some want to be your friends, your company.
Some just want you as their fans.

Seat fillers.

Lasting validation lapping the flames of their candle of pride.

And if I’ve learned
A lick of anything
In this score and sixteen winters,
It’s this:

I’m not fan-chasing anymore.

You want a wall between us, fine.

Tight smile and a pause where confession should eke itself a home.

Too firm handshakes on the train, overly pitched exclamations to
Get Coffee Sometime.   Doors close.  Empty calories of time.

Me?  I’ll make with upstart living
Finding artists who are broken,
Friendly, crooked, open, not always sure.

And I’ll give my dire and impeccable word for them.
Create for them.
Pine for them.  Watch their tiny struggles as they slide their work
Into place.  Bear them witness as they grow.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

DD Poem - A Divorced Dad Pardons a Cockroach

A Divorced Dad Pardons a Cockroach

He’s home.
Counted couples on the train chugging
From the newly-minted lovers to the
Barely patient partners pressed together,
Silent.  Like a wall of night. Looking outward.
Teeth gritted, bobbing with the rails.
He can’t help but feel like he’s being humored,
Cosmically. The scuffed, metal doors open, a bucket seat becomes
Available.   These couples spy his infirmity. He is
Their cautionary tale.

And all his burden lifts:
Clothes scuttle. He creeps to
The bathroom, faces his
Toothpaste-accented reflection.
Then, from the corner of the shower tile,
Almost from out of sight,
A thin, brown roach hugs the wall.
He sighs.  Leans close, whispers to the creature:
Tonight, I wish you peace.  Come tomorrow,
We’ll war again.   He taps off the lights,
Leaves him to his gestures.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

TFLN Poem - Rebound, Rules


Here's this week's poem.


He's my palate cleanser. He's my mint sorbet. He's my saltine cracker. He's who I fuck between people to make the next one better.

Don’t know his middle name.
Or his favorite color.
When he talks, it’s like a clatter of dirty soup spoons
Tossed in a kitchen sink.

But, he serves me.   He’s always prompt.
No questions.  Eyes wide and gently brown like
Sodden earth.  I strip him down, I stretch him
Just so.  Set him in motion.  Guide him to
Where we rut:  today, the floor.  Six weeks (and a
Sleepy art history professor later)
The dusty, thin-lit kitchen.
Never the bed.  Not there.   Rules.
I’ve made them.  Silently.  
My toes curl and he smiles, sadly,
And he’s out the door.  Knows he can’t stay.
Rules.   He’s a perfect in-between person.
Takes no space.   Hoping always I’ll never see him again.

That the next shape will be permanent.
That the smile will hold.
That some other man will lock arms and coo his compromises.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

DD Poem - A Divorced Dad Plucks Out a Nose Hair


Here's this week's Divorced Dad poem.

A Divorced Dad Plucks Out a Nose Hair

An hour, maybe two,
Since the alarm slightly coughed.
But he’s not moving.   A to-do list
Sits folded on a desk, some ten feet way.

And thin-crept dream pours into dream:

A face of a childhood love with their mouth torn and missing,
Then, struggling to move his possessions out of a casually crumbling house.

With one final effort,
He guides the loom which shapes the scenes.
But it’s still wrong.   Still wrong.  A freckled, curvy
Sculptor enters. She smells like cinnamon.  They make
Love, unhurried and sure.  With an awareness of the frail and the glory.
And then she dies. So soon. She’s stricken with cancer,
And the dream flashes to a dimly lit bed,
Then the footnote of darkness.

And he’s awake. 
A chorus of sobs.  
Not ready to start.  
A widower of fantasy.

As a reflex,
He reaches with his right thumb and index finger,
Finds a nostril,
And pulls.  Hard.  Sharp.  No time to reflect or stop.
A crack of sensate shivers echo,
And a long, twisted, black hair is collected.

He smiles. Breathes again, ragged but alert.  All is reset.
He lifts the covers.  He finds his feet.