. 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, December 24, 2009

The Barn Office

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead
threatening an impending darkness,
cob webs on this low ceiling become a hanging obstacle course
like a grandmother threw her wig into the desk fan.

The file cabinet is broken and covered in dust,
years of mismanaged paperwork sits churned in its belly,
leather riding chaps draped over it like a funeral shroud
but a fat orange tabby makes its nest there instead.

Flies are summoned by my presence,
slaves to my middle class blood,
they jitterbug along my lips in preparation for
some tiny ballroom dancing competition.

A sheet of construction paper hangs alone on the empty tack board,
a child’s colored horse and rider,
though it’s raining outside I sometimes think it’s the shitty drawing of
the colored pony prancing on the tin roof overhead.


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