. 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, October 14, 2018

Through The Trees

I can feel her dissecting me
refusing my reach
preaching about my disgusting phallic infancy
these my propensities
wearing my naked flesh like hunter's orange
stalking wildlife
through the trees
this stiff cock from the shore is the lighthouse beacon
pointing to lost sailors at sea
grab a'hold, mate
secure the line
strive to pull your saturated soul from the deep

she wants me whole
but I hide when she seeks
I smoke too much grass and laugh when there's somewhere else
     I should be
too lazy to clean my house
too lazy to clean my life
too lazy to write good poetry.


Monday, October 8, 2018

The Night Thick

The night thick
like your wet kiss
like a quiet fog rolling in waves over the river banks
glowing orb
either the moon
or a street light
orange beacon throbbing from atop ornamental metal
painted black to cover antique rust
we hold hands
play russian-roulette with loaded shadows
is that a pile of trash?
is that a rapist/murderer?
do oak trees have memories?

camera flash from the sky above
angry mother climbing high over the Spanish tiled roof tops
a cumulonimbus pregnancy
wind rustles through wrought iron
ferns dance on rotten balconies
a thunder follows
rattles tall windows
tourists denounce warnings and drink
and drink
and drink

ruddy we find corners and play with one another
your long white leg
your face turned up to the storm
breathing in the rain
while I at your throat devour your soul.


Friday, September 28, 2018


I'm a capable granddaughter
capable of grand sin
with long legs and mustard quarters
I am often unsure of where I'm going
or where I've been
lower your red lips in my mulched mound with a shy grin
drinking lukewarm crystal water from my spiral tower
like we're more than friends
power hour gin shots from the tip of your pink cock
wearing grandmother's thick skin
and my own ruffled socks

I'd stop
but it's not in my tight-fitting genes
your hand in a hot fist wrapped tight around my spleen
we throw secrets against the wall
tally the score
and repeat
found grammy on the kitchen floor bleeding red and deep
laid beside her
closed my tired eyes
and went to sleep.


Wednesday, September 26, 2018

My Wild

Standing in your lion's toes
proudly prancing like a king of beasts
the king of me
calling with a roar for what is yours
demands in droves
the swell of your pale breast in the open fold of your robe
a lion in human's clothes
lying in the thick grass bare ass'd daring me from repose
to slip like a snake up the long line of your white leg
to poach
dare to hope
take from you what you'd gladly give
if only I'd live like you live
if only I'd put on a little show
twirl my lion wild
my soft pussy willow

but what no one knows
your warm killer's breath
actually blows cold.


Friday, September 21, 2018

Junkyard Blues

Car parts and body parts white gravel graveyard
where nothing starts
intelligent grid-work design to help find
the exact jacked husk
stacked on rusting rims
but nothing out here has a heart
warped fenders
art to some men
slim jeans in the pushcart desert of dead cars

sharp cracked glass where some lad was last seen alive
last drive
put your forehead where his brains were spread
hunt the dash for the history of bashed parts bled

there shredded rubber
here an engine component
I want to own it
but fuck!
what would I do with half a carburetor
from a busted 1987 pick-up truck??