. 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

Sunday, April 22, 2018

Ode To Revenge

Seven bodies burned bad and took their wonder with them
into the ground,
seven long years later and their killer has yet been found,
I stand alone among their bones by blood bound,
by destiny to the be the hound that tracks this gotdamn fox down,

Seven young women robbed of living while flames flickered
o'er their delicate skins,
alabaster turned into disaster as somewhere someone walked away
with a grin,
do not call me sinner on the day I capture him and dismember his parts
limb from limb,
forget what they say of revenge in the hymns!

Seven reasons to steal my resolve reciting the psalms from holy heights
they melted in that inferno no less a volcano like the leather of a
baseball glove,
such pretty doves drugged on the lies of a muddy thug,

Lee Arnt,

my loves.


Friday, April 20, 2018


Eponin was born in a black back room in 1962,
post-war soldiers became her fathers,
she'd yell a hearty hullo while chasing hoops,
knees like cobblestones
and skeleton bones
short skirts and her smokey purple eyes too,
she refused to give directions
but was happy to tell you what to do,

Eponin saved my life on the River Danube
when the fire began to crawl,
she spit on my wounds
to soothe the pain
and slept with her tiny fist cupped 'round my burned balls,

They told me she lost her mind
on a mountain in the Urals,
a half-finished old-war mural was all they could find that remained
of her name
on a wall
in downtown Moscow,
some say she made it here to there
in a year
but no one can tell me exactly how.


Thursday, April 19, 2018

Mammal Pride

I'm a bit too kind
or like so many caged egg-laying mammals
I'm likely out of my fucking mind
should'a stayed wild but now I'm saddled
drinking my own blood like it's wine

Momma Bird said only the first whiskey burns
her hair wet from the shower her eyes hungry for a prowler
when I touch her she purrs
scorned like a wasp hunting shadows in a thunderstorm
she makes me work for what I earn.


Friday, April 13, 2018

The First Supper

He bade those with ears to hear gather
garnered as we were in
layered laurel
flowing robes
royal garments
garland'd vests
wigs like setting sunlight nests
a thick pregnant mother moon about to crest
firelight glowing amber's orange on heaving cheeks
and chests
so the bard stood
and although the tiny band crammed in the Avalanche
played their lutes rudely on
he cleared his throat and persisted nonetheless

woe the wrist dipped in dripped candle wax
a pheasant's feather spinning wildly in his cap
a parcel packaged thoroughly in very tight slacks
light from the candelabra throwing his long shadow o'er the grass

twas the night
some say
a tale as old as the sea
did pass

how we laughed carefree as the story slipped from his lips
past eggs cracked
past ALL that food
meat pies sleeping peacefully next to cow pies
each awaiting the first morn's first borne dew fall
past tiki-torches dimly but delightfully setting the mood
over our heads
through our hearts
floating lazily up
like paper lanterns growing ruddy
rising steadily
to the moon

this bards words were fire, y'all
like screaming rockets splashing color skyward
and he earned his due
but as with every bard's storytelling time
the ending came too soon

when we grasped the news
we gasped aghast
stricken dumb by this yeoman in pantaloons
we gnashed our teeth
we spit
we swooned
we rang his ears with endless pleads
we even moped and moaned

the bard would not be moved
quite true

and what's more?!
he left the tale unfinished
so he'd be SURE of an invite the next go 'round
for the telling of part 2!


Wednesday, April 4, 2018

Trindell Slipper

He is the very breath and bones of the Lord
taken all those years ago from the rusty swing-set
   in the yard
charged with mayhem and the destruction
   of the saints
   of the stars

And what then would Mr Trindell Slipper do
if he were alone here
with me
with Linda and the kids
   or with you?

They say it takes a man a year to walk the Earth
to unload his bundle of burdens
to leave his footprints in the dirt

they say religion is the answer
they say religion is the cancer

but the truth is people find it difficult
   to tell you
      exactly where it hurts

Mr Trindell Slipper stole my youth
if you would have been there that day
a child innocently at play
   he would have stolen yours too.


Photo: Vivian Maier