Jake St. John

When I Die, I Die

My hands will no longer

write poems

my voice will no longer

recite words

my bones and ash

returned to earth

somewhere

when I die

the sky will still be blue

the sun will still rise

a dog will chase a cat

a poet will write a poem

about a flower

a child will cry in the night

the moon will go out dancing

the stars will watch lovers

stealing kisses

a pigeon will shit in the city

a man will die in the street

a bank will steal a home

a politician will lie

I hear trains blowing their horns

when I die, I die

the sky will still be blue

A Toast to Loneliness 

for Dave Kennedy

To those who drink

lonesome in taverns

smoke streets brooding

with windblown eyes

slumped shivering in alleys

under the amber moon’s

somber glow

to those wobbling

on heavenly rooftops

with cheap wine

and old friends

singing the sadness

of the stars

to those punching keys

in tenements

which are battered

worse than our souls

but still manage

to record the statements

that echo down boulevards

of the concrete dream

to those alcohol induced thoughts

wafting up into the night

creeping out cracked windows

and down fire escapes

freezing with the dogs

on the rail

we scream at a new America

Sucker Punched By Cupid

I have fallen in love

with purple skies

so wide above oceans

that split worlds

I have fallen in love

with mountains

and lakes

the vastness of terrain

I have fallen in love

with deserts

and canyons

the honesty of the sun

I have fallen in love

with old hotel rooms

and dirt parking lots

highways that meet the moon

I have fallen in love

with old brick mills

and their broken windows

of bitter glass

sinking below the interstate

I have fallen in love

with each star

tacked to the night

that I stare at with a smile

I have fallen in love

with all the songs

that you sing

and I have fallen in love

with you

and you

and you

and you

Published 10-15-17

Jake St. John writes out of New London CT. He has published multiple chapbooks and pamphlet poems. When not writing, he roams his neighborhood streets with coyotes.

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