. 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, March 24, 2010


Introducing my father, who appears from time to time in my poetry...

I stole my father’s knife and
     cut myself,
and I called the mangled flesh
     a loss of my innocence,
The deep blood that ran like a river across my wrist
     was a red glove into which my hand slipped,
I found it made me indestructible,

In my fever I dreamed wild imaginations,
I became a king,
The crimson-colored dots that speckled the concrete
     below my shoes were the distant cities of my kingdom,
Their banners displayed,
A vision of war,

I fell into the illusion,
Past many stars and many miles,
And with the weapon that had taken my own life
     I slew many thousands,
Returning at the very end to my father’s face,
Parched and thirsty for his love,
For redemption,
That sweet sound,
An end to this madness and my eternal fall.