the poetry that matters

Jake Hajer

Jake Hajer, originally from Texas, graduated from the University of Chicago and now resides in San Francisco. His poetry has been published in, Rogue Scholars, Zeitscrift, Nefarious Ballerina, Psychopoetica, Farmhouse Magazine, and Pocket Change

Pink Bags
Washington Park, San Francisco
Primped and glossed, shaking,
they’re always carried by
cute girls walking quickly-
Pink bags jaunt jiggling
to never be worn but
thrown out.
That little thing of lacquered
dynamite, stuffed and covered
with tissue of flammable muffling.
You don’t handle
as much as swing furtively.
A city covered to take
from a shelf what will
be put on a shelf.
      Pounded, gassed, shaking
      They always have a hard-go
      Of carrying them-
      Wrecked and red streaked;
      The pale of bled-out pink
      and sand-blast spritz-
      Smocked in the brownish haze
      of scrape-able grime,
      beheld of 24hr donut shops;
      Without much loping,
      stragglers carry ember-ed
       red ones; bags of large
      vinyl-leather of pigeons feet-
      Pin holes and stretched,
      carried around and used quickly-
Terminal Turbidity
The balls and the fools
rolling sprawled to make
giving up violent.
Sweat sweetly!
Power is in the fading.
Hum where I can hear you.
I’ll huddle till I turn myself inside out.
The manifest destitute
in the hills, the ribs,
nobs and numb snubs-

Fecund fecal;
The death of a salesman-
Yellowing the corners
as if my fingers crumbled in pinches.
Applying for the trials of job
penniless, defunct, out there
rosy cheeked-defaced.
I have nothing to offer
but moods and scary esoterically.
It’s so melodramatic to be this.
Careless yet caring women are lost.
I've slept on the floor for six months
just to write one more -Just to stuff more blood
in the teabag, strung. Cliché paper mache machete
cut of bandages. These words are what
I had, gonzo, gusto, groping poetry.
A twisted beard in the cult
of culture. Terminal turbidity;
Waiting wrung in desolation.
Now, almost homeless and hungry.
Wrought rot- woven
as beautiful as something
failed can be.
I'm not sure what I'll hold on to last
but soon it will be with a shudder.
The Violence of Flowering Jazz
Play the piano with knuckles.
Twirl in lull.
Gentle swirls, thumps-
Trumpets and blossomed flutes-
A crooner like a garden
of swinging lilies.
Lips so close that the stems
can feel the heat of dirt.
Knocking glasses of crystals,
humming of sliding boots.
Rolling dot-tahs-
Licking the oil of headboards.
Signs flapping
and filled quivers quivering.
Backs of blues build up.
Fans smoking at the wrists.
Man Ray flashes-
Big bands wait to shake
in some latin number;
Fields of color
as loud as you can dance.
Forgotten roots slipping
in the sun with out-held
hands of petals.
Dropping golden leaves
in the purr of sweat
till the rasp, the rattle inside,
is cushioned gently
by a head on a shoulder.
The Questions of Bugs
Darting little questions,
are you wanted as I?
Searching for a world
Of broken ice-
-little black epileptic
Wi(l)dgets, low and curious.
Reaching out
with as many
legs as they can sprout.
Tarred shingles-
Flop of feathers,
ratty in wonderment;
We sip coffee with
an extended pinky;
Foam bubbles to puddles;

Buzz to hear our legs
wiggle. We try to run
but just scurry.
We hunch, hording ourselves-
Beg to be answered, making big
our chortling mandibles.
A View of A Man’s House
On Washington St. in Middletown, CA
Sheds, ladders sprawl
and all shades of brown-
Damage of the earth’s
water sheds.
All rotten manners of fencing
partially enclose meaningless
plots; scribbling.
Nets and ropes frayed and failed-
Chicken wire squirrels away
lustily mimicking similarly
discarded ribbons.
Vines as a zealous bow
re-tie as re-clutch everyday
more eaten through canned meat
than porous earth.
A swing attached to a side
listlessly swings it’s corner
with the other in the dirt.
-A mine field of rusted, poisonous
mushrooms moldy gas popped
into sharp edges.
Sparkling candy wrappers
bloom in tares.
Flowers, wild of course,
wander at their lot
reaching through the fence
for the sidewalk, a way s-
Carnival concession stand
paper baskets let the oil
of the fried snacks soak
through to the red checks.
-A house once painted yellow;
The color best beaten by the sun.
Connecting the dots of scars,
patched in stitches; A dusted bowl
of staples, nails and splinters.
-Windows that are more hole than
window suffering whatever weather
carves into it.
Others that’ve never been opened
with panes of millions
of hair-scratches from millions
of slobbering vengeful flies.
Tarps woven in stained blue
crumple in discarded folds.
At an angle to everything
a Buick rusts.
-A truck with no engine
sinks it’s toothless grill.
-Off to the side it’s bed
ails impregnated with plastic.
Overgrown with death;
Curtains, choppings, and leavings-
-Paths in rubble where large
animals leave broken
branches that
outcrop, outlive
in our war of combative rot.

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