. 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

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Hand-Rolled Havanah Cigars

A Spanish story...

Major Stoneham grabbed the Spanish soldier by the ear,
red ears,
bleeding ears,
Tell me what I want to know!
The Spanish soldier wasn't talking,
in any language.

Teddy Roosevelt, am I to understand that you need me
to break the spell and
conquer Spanish Hill?
Poetry, eloquence,
too much death on this island fort.

Clarence Sergeant was a black man with
grey whiskers and cloudy eyes,
graduation cap and soldier's tassels,
black blood on an empty rifle,
jungle fever malaria.

Seven died and the first night's over,
worms eat the bodies in the ground,
plans of worms,
ideas spinning around a lantern,
the U.S. soldiers are staying up late tonight.

General Vellencio Smith grabbed his trousers and
pulled them up,
Spanish stone hid the high stars,
high moon,
the surface was his confidence,
fear in his heart,
his wife was beautiful in Spain.

Juan Pedro Miendezzoto slumped on the wall,
I am no murderer!
A killer where the fire begins,
his empty stomach minus guts
on the jungle's scent that night.

Penelope Vellencio Smith bled tears,
the Duke's daughter Harvard alum,
no clues under her husband's floor,
ghostly limbo,
nothing ever happened again.

Spanish Hill fell to a coyote's howl,
champagne for the lady and
a cigar for the gentleman,
journalism, history,
too much death on this island fort,
El morte' dio.


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