Jake Colton
world of words
Acrimonious Cup

by

Jake Colton

Lying in bed on Saturday night and feeling like a loser, thoughts and emotions stir, a discombobulated blur,
searching, searching, searching, inside my brain for some fucking cure to make it go away, ease the pain from all this
shit there must be something to gain, find it, and find it soon otherwise I’ll go insane, runaway train, dripping acid rain,
a thousand sharp needles puncturing the wrinkly membrane entering the silky vein, cocaine, migraine, numb the pain,
kill the mundane, I must get off this rhyme, but I’m Stuck like an old cripple without a cane, Stuck like a fugitive with a
ball and chain … … Breath in, chill out, breath in, I’M OUT of my fucking mind, and the shit that use to work don’t work
no more bullshit bandaids for the aids of my soul I’m withering, .. withering, .. Fucking Withering and no once seems
to know, … no one seems to care, … everywhere I look a blank stare, … and condescending advice like suck it Up,
life ain’t fair, .. toughen Up, lighten Up, and fixate your focus on the half full of the metaphorical cup. … I drink from
the glass that is given to me. I cringe as the bitterness saturates my tongue, … burns my throat, … and numbs my
soul.

I was lying in bed on a Saturday night and feeling like a loser when … I heard a song. In the midst of my despair,
trying to convince myself that I didn’t care, my body tingled, a shiver went down my spine, and the hair on the back of
my neck erected. Imagination, transformation, … ring around the rosy, walls fall down, CPRed from the hopeless
drown, I travel on a magic carpet in slow and fast motion high above a sparkling golden town.

In this place it’s acceptable, encouraged, and even applauded to think and feel out loud.

In this place you will not be defriended for being unique and you will not be defamilied for choosing a different path.

In this place there is no right and wrong outside of context.

In this place self exploration and personality experimentation is not immediately interpreted as confusion and is often
perceived as evolution.

In this place discomfort is often synonymous with growth.

In this place people are passionate about ideas and identities without needing to convert others to their way of living
and being.

In this place people do not need to put a negative label on that which is different in order to manage their anxiety
and/or self worth.

In this place human connection is paramount, and it is understood that without raw honesty, human connection is
impossible.

Floating down from my bedroom ceiling like a feather, the ominous cloudy weather, baffled and confused, trying to
put all the puzzle pieces together. .. What was it and where did it go? I felt present and alive for a brief moment, which
was longer than I had felt alive all my life, and it was deeper than I had breathed in all my breaths, and it was tastier
than I had tasted in all my tasting. … But it didn’t last. … The feeling was ephemeral and it atrophied like a fire in the
drizzling rain. … I was back to my old, burned out in the cold self, happy memories collecting dust on the shelf, and I
decided to throw a pity party for me, mySelf, and I am alone & empTy, pondering lachrymoseLy, and wondering why
can’t I be like others and find contentment and satisfaction within the pool labeled complacenCy.

Lying in bed on a Saturday night feeling like a loser … when I read a poem. It was from Bukowski about a bluebird
hidden in his heart. Oh god, here it comes, … like a rush of a thousand rivers seeping into the desert floor. …
Bluebird in my heart that I thought was alone in the universe, traverse the fields filled with prickly thorns, and explore
diverse thoughts and behaviors that are tucked away in caves, and corners, and in the crevices of the human soul of
those people that are fucked from being awake, and alert, and emerging from the black hole where living zombies live
their lives merely a step above the unliving, unloving, understanding and accepting only that which the natural eyes
can witness, while in my waking dreams I witnessed with my spiritual eyes a human being with the emotional,
intellectual, and spiritual fitness that was beyond human comprehension, magnetic attention, vertical ascension with
every song sung, photo photed, word worded, painting painted, building built, dance danced, and sculpture sculpted.

For so long the long cycle, holding on by a thread, visions of the dead, in the middle of deep dark ocean I tread as
gargantuan waves crashed upon me. Where is my savior I thought? Where is my hope I cried? Where is my miracle I
whispered? … Lying in bed on a Saturday night. … Light flickers. … Waves placate. … No chemically stabilizing pill,
no cheap and easy thrill, after all this acrimonious searching I found something meaningful and real. All along it was
available, .. accessible, .. I just needed to train my spiritual eyes and my dilapidated heart to be capable of seeing
and feeling the energy and the life created by creative art in all it’s forms. … An ongoing and open invitation, Art
come and permeate my mind and drive the shadows to the shadow, and allow my shadow to shed it’s skin, the
evolution to begin, and ignite the energy to smolder and bubble and effervesce withIn the percolator of that withIn the
intangible withIn. Lying in my bed on a Saturday night, embracing the loss of a loser and pondering the word Art. …
Art. … It’s ironic, .. that such as simple word be iconic of things so beautiful, magnificent, and symphonic. I drink from
the concoction with the glass that I have created. I smile for the first time in a long time as the sweetness saturates my
tongue, … glides down my throat, … and inspires my soul.

* Jake Colton intends to perform the poem Acrimonious Cup at the Green Mill on March 16th, 2008.
Beautifully Fucked Up

by

Jake Colton


What do I do? What do I do? Hmm, … I’m an artist. My canvas is the human soul. We find a mutual goal and roll a
sweet blunt as we take our brushes and paint, recondition unnecessary restraint, I may be a therapist but I ain’t no
fucking saint. Talk to me, Talk To Me, tell me what’s on your mind, let’s find, the mysteries that are hidden deep inside,
worlds collide, all of your secrets that you disclose and confide are confidential, to achieve the substantial, we must tear
down the walls … inside our minds … and allow ourselves to be vulnerable. What? You have bipolar, shizophrenia,
OCD, PTSD, major depression disorder, psychotic disorder, trichotillomania, social phobia, and panic attacks and you
want some magic pill to fix You, calm You, wake You from your life and transform it into something, … something, …
something different. Here take this juice. It’ll help you from bouncing here, and there, and everywhere. But alone it is
not enough, it will be painful, uncomfortable, and tough, to escape the fluff, shed the shit, and embrace your truth.

I’m good at what I do because I have by choice or circumstance walked in your shoes, I’ve paid my fucking dues, and I
continue to search for the clues that will guide me to live more fully, to love more deeply, to think more intelligently, to
laugh more authentically, to understand more thoroughly, and to act more spontaneously.

We leave my office to show the world the painting that we have created, walking naked down the street by many the art
is hated, keep in mind their opinions and judgments are jaded by hailstorms of criticism from mothers, fathers,
neighbors daughters, strangers to authentic selves because we are strongly compelled to conformity, the predominant
mentality, is to present our artwork as an organized, healthy finality instead of a work in progress, forcing humanity to
regress, as the blacks and blues of your masterpiece are numbed, erased, covered with the colors that make people
comfortable, the opposite of vulnerable, creating and acting only in accordance with that deemed palatable.

Think out loud, … feel out loud, … LIVE OUT LOUD and be proud to experiment with your personality, dig into the
superficiality, swim in the complexity, creating in the subtlety of each paint stroke your own messy, … fucked up, … and
beautiful authenticity.

*Jake Colton performed the poem Beautifully Fucked Up at the Green Mill on December 23rd, 2007.
Something About

Jake Colton


In my opinion, beautiful words without the context of their birth have little value and
context without beautiful words has no value.

My context.  Exited the womb backwards.  Adolescent anomaly--'star' football player and
socially awkward recluse that spent most Saturday nights reading books.  Ex-Mormon
(though it was an amiable split).  Subjected to extreme deprivation and hedonism.  Two
year 'mission' to Brazil in the heart (or at least a lung) of the Amazon rain forest.  Social
experimentation.  Addicted to 'natural highs.'  Currently in withdrawal and needing
something creative and bold to experience the same high, which, in part, is the essence
of my personal evolution.  Psychological and emotional therapist that needs
psychological and emotional therapy.  Self proclaimed writer and slam poet.  Spiritual
'treasure hunter.'