. 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

Thursday, November 15, 2018

Lake Babylon

we were does
and we were devils
giggling in curtains of dancing smoke
while in the woods ran fire
pale skin and the black bark of southern pine
she grinned like a coyote grins
pawing the ground
flaunting in her pink folds
a skeleton ballerina
blood on her long fingers
bloody lips

a dead rabbit in the leaves sinking back into its own open ribcage
a murder of crows clamoring over this tiny lost soul

her belly full
leading me to a lake like a scar in the forest
where we could bathe
and fuck
and watch everything burn.


Sunday, November 11, 2018


In the book store
in her mom jeans
swarthy curls and wet lips
pawing paperbacks in the dusty stacks with her long bony fingertips
the ghost of the dead store owner brushes past me
leaves me in ecstacy

or was that the touch of her bony denim hip?


Tuesday, October 30, 2018

I'm Right Here

You're always looking
I'm right here
white hotel bed sheets
like I'm some sun-tanned son lost on a faded carpet sea
dark dead Samsung on the wall
watching everything
watches me
sucking life's light
all existence even
into that empty screen
soft prayers and empty screams
a holy deity

three long legs and some grey hair
a three-thousand yard stare
hyper-aware he's sometimes faking
profound and prostrated
naked since this morning
the drapes long drawn
wondering all along
should I be yawning?
or rising like a white lion tightwire walking while crying?
white light from the lamp
coughing green contraband
lamb of god took strong Samson's locks
lamb of god looked down at his shoes
when the tall temple
fell forthright
like a million loose rocks
my soul tied up in wet hot knots

I'm right here
in front of you
but I'm nowhere it seems
white hotel bed sheets
and lost dreams.


Friday, October 26, 2018

This Loving You

This loving you
in the full belly of this hot sticky pregnant south
bruised blue and purple summer thunderheads
bleeding sweet relief on the suburbs
and the swamps alike

This loving you
on Friday nights smoking cigarettes and sweating
porch light beacon for bulbous beetles piloted by the blind
dogs out there barking mad cause cats
   have the real freedom
cats come and go
cats with reserved love
teach me feline lessons
teach me to deny you

This loving you
on Saturday mornings wrapped in sunlight and white bed sheets
your breath like a child's snore
an aromatic mix
hint of vodka
hint of tar
hint of the last of me to reach your lips after you woke me up
in the middle of the night
with your teeth
and the sweep of your breasts pressed against

This loving you
in the distances we've allowed
all this time we've wasted
still defiantly believing that we'll live forever
a lifetime is plenty enough time
wait to say what you should say

-not today
come alive then

This loving you
is getting old.


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.