. 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

Sunday, March 28, 2010


I wrote this on a road trip of undetermined length and destination, feeding my lonely soul with more and more miles. Such unguided trips are treasure chests of creative gold for artists, and I tried to capture every drop my bleeding heart pumped out.

They sat alone together on the end of her girl's bed,
like two tired boxers
they were tired of fighting,
fighting for each other,
and they had retired to their corners,
tears are the heart's sweat.

He said: This reminds me of last spring.
Last spring you wore roses,
and you smiled like morning's garden.

She didn't smile,
nor did he.
They were broken and didn't dare cause another crack,
afraid of what the broken glass would cut.

She said: I only wanted me.
He said: Me too.

The distance talked between them,
it begged them and pleaded.
They ignored it.
It sounded like the television
turned on for no one in the other room.
This distance had new friends
and they turned a cold shoulder.
He wanted to kiss her because he remembered how.
She looked down.
He wasn't sure.
She thought he looked the same.
The years had come
carrying them along,
and they moved unchanging through them.
That's a lie, she thought.

He said: Was there any point,
to all of them,
if now is now?

They met at night
and he often didn't remember her.
They fell in love.

She said: Don't...
Don't talk that way.
We were on fire,
we couldn't help it.

He felt alive and was ashamed for it.
He felt her but his fingers were still cold.
He was a ghost,
but she couldn't see through him.
They danced together when they couldn't sleep.
Each thought the other forgot.
Neither knew the immortality of those thoughts.
He felt the bed's sheets.

He said: How far back can you remember?

She shrugged.
That was why she loved him.
He looked around and wondered how well the walls listened,
and he was jealous.

She said: Something's missing.
He said: It doesn't have to be this way.

The air felt dry.
Talking seemed empty within it
where it never had before.

He said: I want you.
I want you to know that.

She shrugged,
and her heart broke.
The world was damned.
They swam through it and choked on love.
The alarm clock rang unannounced.
The morning and the sun had arrived.
She stood, weak in strength,
pulled the plug and stopped the clock,
and rested on her girl's dresser.
He looked up at her.
She thought, well...,
but said nothing.
He thought, well...,
but said nothing.
Sadness floated in the air
and drowned the sound of the TV in the other room.
Sadness rested on the bed,
at the corner where he sat,
at her empty corner,
on the dresser too.

She said: I have to go.
He said: I should be going too.

They both smiled and the glass held.
The cracks weren't as bad.
He shrugged and looked around
before he walked out.
He remembered every part of her.
She knew that.
That was why he loved her.



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