. 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

Friday, June 15, 2018

In Robes and Regret


Is this Heaven, for Heaven's sake?
call it what you will stumble over your definitions
stumble through your very own joyful heartache
walk with me through the leaves
walk with me to the rake
angels lie awake whispering ghost stories to one another
about the king of snakes
priests fall in love with little boys for pleasure
but live in God's house for the tax breaks
tossed willy-nilly into the lake of fire
succumb to earthly desire
a fat tired black clad friar tosses his nuts in my throat
like a cat in the dryer
if I say I'm not a sinner am I liar?
higher powers call my cell phone by the hour
but I yell
COWARDS
tell it to my face
hang up the phone and send them on their merry way
stay
but stay
the sermon should be swell today
donuts afterwards in the sweltering heat
laced with as much grace as this tiny chapel can contain
I promise, father
to bend my knees
to plead and pray
my soul is yours
COWARD
despite whatever else I say.

TA

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Betty


C'mon, baby, you know God gave you them fangs
so you can sharpen your knife,

C'mon, baby,
is it too much to be asked to be cut tonight?
ripe flesh flawed but displayed for the cutting,
the deer make haste through the woods
'cause the bucks are rutting,
find me bloodletting,
find me feeding on the dead skin cells in the folds of your bedding,
hasten the good men from the wedding,
may they run rabid like dogs chasing confetti,
may they strike you as lost men,
but deadly,
never to be savored by your harsh tongue of sand
and sin,

C'mon, Betty,
brandish that blade and let's begin this messy undoing
while your hand's still steady.

TA

Friday, June 8, 2018

Mud Hut Men


Is there no kit to welcome the foreign horde to our shores?
bag of last names pronounced phonetically
a list of the best boudin shops alphabetically
(cause no true top 10 list exists)

shift around the contents of this clutch
until your wayward fingers linger long enough
on a mud hut
built by savage men in the marshes
who survived the summer heat
who survived the mosquito sting
who survived the hurricane

but who could not survive the greed of man

dig past the pencils engraved in local stencils
and further contraband
until in the heart of your purse
cursed to see a people ignoble in their struggle
ignorantly denying they were the first to be damned.

TA

Monday, June 4, 2018

The Treatise Endless


Today the wind blew in cruel,
and on top of that bitter bitch's back blew in thunderstorms too,
too concerned with the rain in their bloated guts
to feel anything for a smattering of mortal fools,
zeppelins did loop-de-loops writing sky-cloud truths to warn
us of what would happen if the rain broke loose,

We stomped around in our cowboy boots
and seersucker suits ignoring the signs spelled out so well
o'er our roofs,
ignoring the clues,
invisible Zeus being pulled in a chariot of cumulonimbus clouds
loud with mad power within those tall terrible towers,

And then came the showers,
thunder broke into our homes like intrusive prowlers,
lightning leapt to the ground like the stem of a bright but temporary flower,
we prayed it'd be brief,
but the water fell for hours,

King Howard left his damp throne and rose into Heaven to plead with
the thunder god to lesson his aggression,
Oh, Sky Father, he cried, have compassion,
King Olympian, relinquish your transgression,
son of Cronos and the Titaness daughter Rhea, stave off this
sodden armageddon,
I am deafened by the awe of your legend, oh Pitcher of Thunderbolts,
but am here nonetheless on bend'd knee begging,
call off this wedding of earth and sky before we are buried alive
by water too high even for the mountain tops,
if this is a lesson then may this education session be terminated with prejudice,
we apologize with an emphasis on selflessness,
please, be sensitive of these bodies - our most precious possessions,
so fragile, so reckless,
a gift of your divine essence,
if someone must pay penance, then let ME, a humble king, step into the crevice,
spare us the endless menace of your jealous obsession,

It is said King Howard never returned from his visit to the clouds,
his proud son, the prince, bowed and was crowned,
the rain dried up,
ceased falling from the thunderclouds...
and then came the drought,

Again the people moaned and complained aloud,
groans were thrown like stones o'er the dustblown land,
until a bone-dry wind,
as cruel as sin,
sounded above the shouts,
drying out the words in the people's mouths,
a distant crackling sound,
the familiar fear,
the familiar doubt,

Another long-winded story of the disloyal and the devout,
most likely profound,
princes buried and forgotten in the sometimes scorched
and sometimes sodden ground,
surrounded by a long list of dead nobility under brown'd mounds,
alas, enough of sand and gout,
of downpours and heavy clouds,
that particular part of history,
I'm saddened to point out,
is not at all what this poem is about.

TA

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Of Termessos



I am the last man of Termessos,
the forgotten chick in the eagle's nest,
sandals on my weather-worn feet and a ring through my nose,
the eye of Bellerophon upon my chest,

I stand alone among stones ruined,
but not by the great Alexander's hands,
these rocks were worn by time and winds chewing,
the only unconquered city in all the land,

last guardian of the city of Termessos,
her valley in the clouds,
a great gladiator prosaic and forever stoically composed,
Romulus and Remus would be ever so proud.

TA