. 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

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Her Spit


She licked her spit from that precipice of pink lip,
pussy for the boys with the guns on their hips,
the last life-jacket remains forever hung in the cabinet
     'cause the captain goes down with the mother fucking ship,
twist her ankle,
spank her and pinch those tiny tits,
she slips like venom through my veins,
like mixed feelings through Cain,
like the very heart of civilization through my stiffening dick.

2015
TA

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

For Blood


Who gave the wolf a gun
already threatening to tear his howl from my throat
festering in his fur
and hung
the wrong kind of smell on the air
beware the smell
of the gun powder
of the woman's wail
growing like a cock or like cancer
in the hallowed halls of my black lungs
the bullet cutting through courage
through my tossed luggage
through the diatribes of fussy pilgrims on a long voyage
hunting for the heart of anyone
but bound for MY blood
for blood
for blood
for blood
for blood
for blood

and fuck all the soft words
what's done is done.

TA
2016
.

Sunday, December 3, 2017

Loud Pulsing Lewd Primal Proud


They called for my head,
the gallows high the rope strong the wood stained red,
let them gasp
   and find false hope,
feast like fools
   on the lies they've been fed,
me, I'm destined for greater things than death,
the drumbeat in the center of my chest
is loud
   is pulsing
      is lewd
         is primal
            is proud
but cannot be heard by ears in faithless rest,
turned deaf by lives lived in jest,
down with those who've forgotten adventure and who
no longer dream of distant sunsets,
   down with soft hearts,
      and your father's fears,
         and your stolen grace,
            and your sad eyes,
               and your miserable lives,
                  and your silly threats,

me, I lived my existence full,
and without regret,
everyday choosing life,
by my own free will,
   by my own hands,
      my cock,
         my sweat,

call for my head if you must,
roll dice for my clothes and place bets,
know this, ye unhappy fools:
my body is but baggage I'll have happily left
   as my soul flies away free
      on the last of my breath.

TA
2016

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Wanderlust


I cut my teeth on wanderlust,
fuss at dawn
with duck calls and a blunderbuss beneath the horse leather under us,
trust the truck engine
and hope the pistons keep spinning despite the water rust,
tough is a thousand mosquito bites
and bull moose musk,
fill 'er up - octane and whiskey and bath tub suds,
have her wash the dirt
from the parts that hurt 'cause best buds scrub for love,
loud lake trout hitting flies from above,
naked in the cold shallows
but her lips feel as soft as the feathers of a dove,
all the million thoughts you think of,
all the brilliant children
who will never know life beyond being an urban citizen,
crimson cinnamon blood
floods my veins and stains the rocks in constellations of red,
led to the waterfall by the call of a higher power instead,
cower before the lord, you pale
earthly ape, whose tower is the mountain,
whose voice is the ceaseless pounding
of endless gallons of a clear forest stream,
the rough rocks of the world redeemed,
I cut my teeth on wanderlust
and bathe my bones in waters some only ever know in dreams.

2016 - TA

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

My Mother's Gift


Pig pork tabled on my tongue like
the nesting swallows in the corner
of my porch,
Dad's porch built with electric saws and
the beer-stained curses of the mouth of the man that pushed me
from the tip of his dick deep
into my mother's guts twenty-nine years ago this April,
Straining now with that same maw to
grind pork fat into digestible components friendly to the ulcers
that riddle the innards of his tight-as-a-drum distended belly of pale
sparsely-haired mole-ridden flesh,
The thick coagulation of slick slime coating that porker's succulent
offerings wedding my own saliva and
sliding greedily,
greasily,
into a belly that perhaps shares the same genetic code as
my elderly father but for fuck's sake best not
one day share that same shape,

He eyes the dry swallow nest vacant in the summer season
as if the swallows have some better place to spend
warmer climates than in the shade of
my porch with its peeling yellow paint and
drunken mosquitoes visiting in the cool evening,
His eyes are becoming cloudy - both in what we see when
looking into them and what he see's when he looks out,

"That bird nest," he says, "up there,
it reminds me of coming home"
The sun is splendid on his face forcing its way into
the cracks that have eaten their way
through those contours beaten both by the hands of time and
by the hands of harder men than he,

"How so?" I ask, later to repent for a question whose answer would
dig through my skull like a bobcat's claws in a rabbit's ribcage,

"Your mother would wait for me on the lounge chair by the television set,
That old blue faded piece of shit with the stains along the armpit,
You know the one,
Filthy sad springless chicken full of cockroaches and wood glue,
The one that stockpiled dog hair in its folds like we were gonna be short of it someday,"

I nodded,
told him I remembered the one,

"She would be naked," he went on to say, smiling,
at what he could clearly still see and I was only beginning to reluctantly visualize,
"Ripe as a green apple,
As white and smooth and stiff as a mannequin in the Dillard's window,
And that bird's nest up there,
It reminds me of her thick black bush,
Hiding her lovely pussy,
Between her long spread legs
waiting for me when I'd come through the door."

TA - 2013