Jake Hunter is a poet from St. Louis, MO. He has two black cats, Seahorse and Coal.
If the thunder don’t get you then the lightning will.— Grateful Dead, The Wheel
Beware of those who want to turn you
into a cautionary tale. Beware
of women with black hair. Watch out
for anyone who says they have the answers.
Maybe the answers aren’t what you think they are.
Be aware of new friends and old friends
and know that they are aware of you too.
Don’t worry. Relax. Watch out
for your ex because you can’t go back
and you can’t stand still. Decide for yourself.
Beware of belief and lack of it and don’t watch the news.
Black haired women have always been a problem
for me. But don’t take my word for it. Beware
of all words. Don’t worry. Watch out.
Have you ever wondered if
the faces we see in dreams
are real people, somehow
stepping into our dreams
by their own will or just
arriving in the same dream?
The guy with the blonde ponytail
and the brown eyebrows. The smiling woman.
The wet-eyed, dark-eyed man
who apparently cuts his own hair.
The cyberpunk on the staircase
with the bright illuminated surface.
All dreamers themselves, maybe,
in other times and places. Who knows
what dreams even are really? No one,
probably. One of those things
we aren’t supposed to figure out
in this life. Like death
and happiness and parents,
all of which would make
great company in a dream:
Death in his black shroud lording
over your parents with unending
jokes, leaning on his curved scythe,
happily, since Happiness has arrived as well
wearing his green overalls. And you,
the host, and now your cyberpunk girlfriend.
Now Bill Walton. Now Jesus.
This is what death must be like,
a chill voice quips beneath its hood,
as you all chuckle around the fire
blazing in the center of eternity.