. 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

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

The Miles

This is an older poem I wrote once when I was free of all commitments and living in my truck on the open road... full of sadness and loneliness and happiness, with no where to go but to whatever next stop was on the horizon.

I feed my gypsy soul with miles -
Long stretches of them,
Roads that follow the curves of mountains,
And roads that divide the desert,
Lonely sad and straight.

Yet they are all lonely -
Lonely roads of cobblestone in sleepy downtowns,
Lonely roads whose shoulders dance with uncounted yellow taxis,
Lonely roads that know the deer’s sorrow,
Who know the vulture’s joy.

These miles come new to me everyday,
Days that have no past,
Roads marked only, One Way.

Do tears at night match the wasted fuel of the day?
Am I missing everything that I see flying by?

The answer is only, Move On.


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