. 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

Tuesday, March 20, 2018


My baby
she's a ghost
host of vocal camaraderie filthy and derogatory
advocating for captivating women everywhere
gyrating like I found her whether I love her
whether I leave her
decipher or deceive her
please her when you nod yes ma'am
yes ma'am!
bend down beggar boy, and be my slave
be damned
yes, you
sweat her swelter she plays the cards dealt her
makes me fantasize I've got the blues like old thick-lipped black men forgotten in the Delta
the truth is -
I've got it good,
but the truth is ruthless
my baby
she's music
hardly human
hardly foolish
she uses me brutally never apologizes but cries her blue eyes out at man's futility
no, not his futility;
his violent tendencies
his quest for countless cock strokes and mother-may-I dependecies
she's lucid, you see
she's confused at times, sure, but not stupid
you see
she's got cerulean swirling in her eyes like lost sailors pining for lost love lost at sea
she's not defeated
she cannot be
she just can't comprehend the kind of inhumane human ignorance perpetuated by under-enlightened but overrated men
she's no believer but believes piously that hate is sin
projects reckless acceptance to anyone genuine blessing those who strive for transcendence
my baby is a life lesson
and I but a lowly scoundrel
a felon
I come when she beckons
steal what I can from her council when she gives me even seconds of that arousing attention.

Friday, March 9, 2018


Can I do to you what the moon
does to the tide?
that moment your face brightens with fire,
the black starlings who hide
worrying each night that the sun has died,

end of desire,

never again morning light,
we play with truth,
and with lies,
trying to balance it all on the dull
edge of a rusty knife,
shaking off a grey layer
from a dusty life,
might as well tell the story
before the details
run dry,
cross the river of your body
at low tide,
before the water gets too high,
under the dull pattern of moon light,
shore to shore,

blow that whistle, baby,
wave goodbye.


Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Plymouth Duster

To the man who tried to sell me life insurance out the back of his Plymouth
mouth agape cheshire grimace begging me for one more minute
trouser snake hunting in the thin folds of his denim lolling on with his gimmick
me distracted
pondering the finish of each poorly designed poorly contrived sentence
him stretching the truth like some athletes stretch their tendons
I felt his pain
(in that moment)
I felt his tension
I knew his mission
he had come to claim his place on the throne of heaven
he had come because he was promised a holy ascension
but because I couldn't afford any life insurance
I didn't listen
sent him off with Momma's three-day-old biscuits
shook my fist in the air and dismissed him

now I simply miss him
long to kiss him
suck the gin from his lips and subsist in a pit with him
if I had to
I'd make do
linger in his perfume
be moved to consume his voodoo
love him until all life on earth is through

love him
love him
love my boo
in that chalky blue Plymouth Duster with the rust holes you can see right through.


Monday, February 19, 2018


Gabriella succumbed to the night and fell to pieces
let the stars inside her head because Death
(that old dread)
had been defeated
in her pleated skirt and transparent shirt her rosette nipples
begged like orphans to be needed
I conceded
for who wouldn't??
challenged her to combat until one of us was left bleeding
until only one heart was left beating
until the crescent moon packed up its silver light for the night
and retreated.


Thursday, February 15, 2018


     Layla, travel weary princess
and tireless fence runner
hunter in the heather in leather and clean linens
spent dreaming
spent spinning
red devil in your red ears ever listening
found you drowning in the heat of your own clutch
where it feels no pain
where it
in the center of your heart where the dark fire burns
     Layla, spend your summer nights
(if you must)
in pursuit of that holy truth
in the dirty bed in the center of my room
trumpets playing midnight tunes to crows and thieves
and fools
Jesus in the warm heart of a whore
     Layla, with pockets full of gum and copper change
nothing is
as it was before
nothing changes
a dangling moon hangs as low as it always has
gravity as heavy as invisible gas
silver serpents cold to the core
lower us into the burning flame
I cried
she sang
everything seemed rearranged