Un-American Classic

Jake Smith

Jake Smith | Journalism & Creative Writing

  • The Dancing Faun

    Jake Smith

    Far off in the distance,
    A Harper plucks a thread.
    From where I work I start to hear
    It ringing in my head.
    And so I turn and look across
    The field into the trees,
    And gaze upon a dancing faun
    Who bounds away from me.
    I set aside my tools and rise
    To follow after close,
    And seek the haunting melody
    That rings throughout my bones.
    As I proceed, the trees reach high
    And dim the winding path.
    Far off in the distance
    The harp turns to a laugh.

  • Finally, a Mask

    Jake Smith

    8 seconds on a bull named Moonshine
    Finish the race.

    Learn to sin properly.
    Learn how to truly write.

    I been to Hell.
    I may not drink the devil’s water
    But I know it’s sweet,

    I was not myself.

    I’ve been a broken boy
    and
    now I watch you break boy
    and
    it breaks my heart boy

    It breaks my heart.

  • Halves of a Spirit

    Jake Smith

    My brain, a pink rose
    Who whithers with the sunset,
    Who blooms at high noon.
    Suspended in warmth
    In a porcelain bowl,
    Its thorny stem descends
    My spine and tries
    To push it’s wandering, surging
    Roots through the soil of my body.

    My heart, a raw fist
    That strikes, in rhythm,
    My hollow chest.
    Striving against a bone jail,
    Like the red army
    Versus the white.
    And though he knows who will win,
    He perseveres.
    And he doesn’t miss a beat.

  • Haiku Number Two

    Jake Smith

    Shallow black water
    Winds march waves to the west shore
    Stars watch from above

  • Haiku Number One

    Jake Smith

    June sunrise
    Moon sliver climbs up sky
    Sinks in river mist

  • I Left It In October

    Jake Smith

    I left it in October.
    For safe-keeping, I guess.
    October, my old friend,
    I will always trust you.
    You showed me death.
    You showed me love.
    You made me a man,
    And I welcome you each year.

    I left in October
    Now, once a year, I find it
    Again, and hold it to my chest.
    In my lungs, I hold it
    Then release it to the wind,
    And to November,
    When the next chapter is inked
    Onto the rough, white page
    And, finally, the fog is lifted
    To show a new world,
    The next step.

    October, what treasure
    Is there this time around?
    An end?
    A beginning?
    A heaven?
    A hell?
    I rock back and forth on my toes in March and wait for October.

  • The Insomniac

    Jake Smith

    He stays up late reading the ravings of a lunatic and convincing himself he is one. He thinks hard about every decision he might have to make tomorrow and never reaches a verdict until that moment. He thinks about her and cycles between love and hate at least thirty times before moving on to something else.

    “One more cigarette and then I’m going to sleep.”

    After five cigarettes, he sits down and turns on the television. Nothing is on but infomercials and softcore porn. He thinks he hears something upstairs. He doesn’t. He starts making faces out of the woodgrain on the paneling.

    “If I was going insane, would I suspect it?”

    He clips his fingernails. He shaves. He contemplates cutting his hair. The faucet is dripping. If only he knew about plumbing. There is a Max Lucado book on the end table that his mother got him. He might try to read it.

    “I just want to sleep.”

    He slept.

  • The Chronicler of Man

    Jake Smith

    I am the Chronicler of the Race of Man.
    Like Man, I live and eat and die
    With my shaking, bleeding hands
    And naked, holy, burning eyes.
    I know love high and sweaty.
    I know sadness, deep and dirty.
    I know anger, red and breathy.
    I know poetry, wet and wordy.
    I will strike
    Across this land
    And snarl and bite
    At the feeding hand.
    I named every beast
    That walks on the earth.
    I planted each seed
    That blooms from the dirt.
    I bleed the words
    Across the page
    And feel the hurts
    Of this dark age.
    I see the sights.
    I hear the sounds.
    I breathe the skies.
    I walk the grounds.
    I eat and sleep with holy hounds.
    I am the Chronicler of the Race of Man.
    Like Man, I live and eat and die
    With my shaking, bleeding hands
    And naked, holy, burning eyes.

  • Yuanfen or Destiny Without Fate

    Jake Smith

    “I love you,” he said. “You’ll understand it one day.”

    She laughed. She didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t as clear to her as it was to him. She could never understand how some people seemed so sure of matters of the heart.

    He knew, though. He knew that even though they were to part ways soon, he would return to her, the pillar of strength. He would return, battle-scarred and broken, and she would nurse him back to life. She would stand over him and stare, her hand resting on his thumping chest and worry resting on her troubled brow. He would look up at her with dry, parched lips and she would raise a mason jar of smoke, hope, and poetry to his mouth. He would drink deeply, and as his head fell to the pillow, he would see the road behind him and the smoldering ruins in the distance. He would be assured that he was home, that his oasis had been with her, his muse, the whole time. Just as he thought, those many years ago when he thought those many years ago.

    He was wrong about one thing, however. She never did understand. She was always a tad unsure that it would last. Until their hair turned gray and their eyes turned pale, she had her doubts.

    © Jacob A. Smith and An Un-American Classic 2013.

  • I Asked For A Candle; You Gave Me A Cigarette

    Jake Smith

    “Can you pass me a candle?”
    “We don’t have any candles. Here. Take this.”

    He handed me a cigarette and struck a match. As he held the match to the
    end of my cigarette, I took a deep breath. The angry red cherry creeped quickly towards my lips. With every breath, the small glowing lump illuminated the darkness of the silent wood.

    Nearby minivans blew blindly by on the throbbing vein of the nation – the interstate. Inside, privileged white families clung desperately to each other like bars on a cage. They howled like monkeys and stared dumbly ahead at the hypnotizing pavement, while slurping on plastic straws in plastic cups.

    “Take lots of pictures!” cried the neighbors enthusiastically while the patriarch rested his meaty hands possessively on his wife’s shoulders. It’s American tradition, after all, to show the things you have more triumphantly than the things you do.

    The dry autumn leaves crunched against the tender earth as I moved my boot. A crackling fire now spread its tendrils towards the sky. My Jeep Liberty separated us from the wilderness like a sheltering mother. With my head resting on a rolled towel, I drifted to sleep.

    © Jacob A. Smith and An Un-American Classic 2013.

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started