. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Saturday, January 20, 2018

Moony


Moony made it down to Mexico,
past wilted women in homemade cottons
     and men smoking spliffs through holes in their throats,
dogs died in ditches after a dissatisfied life on the open road,
when Dios calls the bitch mutt home
     the bitch mutt goes,
scores of crows flood the sky diving in droves
     nesting in blossoming teenagers' clothes,

Moony waddled through it all,
with balls of dope in his ass laughing madly
     at the insanity of a man squirming with illegal contraband,
his hands clammy under every shake,
his eyes shifty and his smile fake,
hauling poisoned freight nestled so very closely to his prostate,
a thin trail of blood slithers from his dilated ass lips
     like an infant crimson snake,
Moony makes his way to where jackals wait,
they welcome him into their den in blue berets
     and cocked AK's,
mustachioed men with dark skin
     and sullen face,
the last of the great Aztec race,
a man named Juan Castillo displays his place
     within their ranks,
points to a desecrated bathroom,
bids Moony make haste,
go spread his legs
     and lose the last of his civilized grace.

TA

Thursday, January 11, 2018

Lionne


This carnal craving a tomb
a dark dance-hall floor for my slender fingers to
dance
dance
dance
a waltz to ragtime tunes
she's soon to come soon to leave
this ace tucked higher than a magic man's hare up my
   cheap three-piece suit sleeve
daring me to strangle myself in flaxen tangles
velvet triangle
believe I will
believe I do
in her flesh
in her lips
in the thunder and lightning crackle mountain shifting earthquake dazzle
   of her bony hips
her hands tied to my ceiling
reeling because I taunt
but never touch
the brush of her soul too much
rush to find gold
but when it's found
hush
tell no one
expose her pale flesh to the midnight sun
snap photographs of our bodies like a sub-machine gun
run this rubber tongue along the avenues of her spine
a long curving train track through Steinbeck's jug wine shanties
but whoa boy! never waste taste
dine in the unrefined nooks and crannies
   left behind by discarded panties
mix foul and fancy
treat her course
treat her classy
send her home with a kiss
   and pay for her taxi.

TA

Tuesday, January 9, 2018

Lemon Party


Twelve men stand together in hip waders and rain slickers
bent over tripods with mounted cameras and remote-controlled triggers
snickering to one another as their reddening fingers snap pictures
twelve men focusing lenses on the lake bed where looms a single figure
a veritable killer with thick fur the wet color of hard liquor
they wager their very souls that this monster is not out searching for dinner
otherwise they're out of luck and he's twelve old men richer
consider the brute force of his attack and the violent manner it would be delivered
in bites he could eat eyes stomach lungs small intestines testes and liver
it would come quicker than they could abandon their gear to jive and skitter
shutters flicker as the twelve men linger like city slickers on the shallow lake mirror
their other selves shimmer when the wind blows soft breath ripples and trimmers
winter whispers in their aged ears this natural killer
the figure remains downrange and ever the giver
of life
of love
of liberty
and all with vigor.

TA

Thursday, January 4, 2018

Alas (or) Footprints In The Sand II


I went out walking this morning
   past dew and the fog from the sea,
to see if I could spot your love,
perhaps somewhere in the grey distance, infinite,
looking back at me,

no birds sang their shrill notes nor did the sounds from the ships
   reach the coast,
nor did the Earth move nor did any sinners boast,

alas,

my love is lost,
the sun is hidden,
and I am a shell,
an empty crumbling hell of a shell at most,

my feet bore me along twisted paths irresolute and demanding,
sand sucked on my bare bones in hopes that I would be caught unmoving,
perhaps standing,
long enough to be buried by the weather and my sadness,
the dead trees gathered round like sharks as they sensed my descent into madness,
foolish bastards!
I moved along scurried ever hunting in the rocks for laughter,

still, without the sun,
without the birds singing from throaty lungs,
I was at best lost
   and at worse done,
complete in my isolation,
at the end of the world,
known to no one,
a figure in shrouds whose disappearance had begun,
when you left
   you promised it was for the best,
you were wrong,
but still you've won.

TA
pic by mariahurtadoi

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

Footprints In The Sand



I went out walking this morning,
alone,
past the domes wherein prayerful petitioners lay prostrate absent
   the distractions of house and home,
eulogies and laments mingled in the surf with hints
   that the devil's meddling had been overthrown,
ghosts moaned in the deep begging to be released,
but it was not up to me sifting through the sand in my bare feet
   to set their grumbling sorrows free,
a ball of gas and heat rose slowly in the far east painting the coast
   in hazy orange tones,
I walked on past cackling gulls and offered back my own sweet song,
notes from my guts bled past my tongue into the heavens
   thrown from my lips to flip o'er the surf rising ever upward like a vocal cyclone,

a drunkard eyed me from his cardboard box home,
sand in his beard and his eyes set with fear,
I steered neatly around his mound of the things life throws out
   only to hear from behind me sounds from his gruff hound's mouth:

"excuse me, kind sir, got anything you'd like to give out?"

he wasn't loud,
only a whisper,
an anti-shout,
vowels crowded with disuse and a tongue long abused by foul liquors
   allowed into that toothless pouch,
I crouched down next to his abode, stole a glance at the trash that flowed
   from his comely chateau to the open sea below,

"tell you what," I spoke, "you free them lost souls out there in that moat
   and I'll give you anything you can manage to ask for from that ol' tattered throat."

he sobbed then, for he knew this to be so: that bums to not float,
they sink like stones,
if he were to attempt to bob like a shrimp
   his own life would be forfeit,

I touched his gentle head and said, "weeds spread like fire, my friend,
do not lay your bed down with the dead,
here's a dollar,
don't spend it all on bread."

TA