. 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

Friday, April 30, 2010

The Cabin

The first poem I ever got published was on a website for classy erotic literature. I wasn't particularly looking for that genre so to speak - it was just the first thing I came across on craigslist looking for poetry submissions. I submitted four pieces. This was not the one that got accepted. I think it was a little too tame...




We made it to the mountains ahead of the snow
and watched through frosted windows as our cabin became a tomb
encased in delicate flakes that together draped the forest in an indescribable winsomeness.

Our clothes came off soon after that, being the only freedom in that honeymooners' prison,
and we warmed ourselves on the fur rug tipping glasses of deep wine
in front of a fire whose peeping-tom eyes we allowed to dance over our mutual skin.

Into the night, and many long nights thereafter,
we seethed with a thrilling loneliness that gladly ignored the world outside
already buried in the husky odors of our lust's amorousness.

We left the mountains in the Spring when the streams were pregnant
and wondered how infatuation could ever have an ending
when the rituals of desire followed us down the road to another looming season.


2005


Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Five Miles Up Colfax

Another tale from my Denver days - specifically from those days when I lived on Colfax Ave., the same street that Jack Kerouac spent many of his rambling moments traipsing along...



Me and Jack,
separated by sixty years
but alike in our quest,
have found ourselves
among Denver’s streets.
We both lay to rest
on the one called Colfax.
My tiny room,
a storage space really,
for a bed and a desk,
don’t compare
to the luxurious apartment of Jack’s.
It’s still Mexico-Denver,
It’s still Colfax.

2005


Sunday, April 18, 2010

The Desert's Allure

Trying to make sense of some thoughts...




In what world,
what wisdom,
at the outer edge of a lovely oasis,
rich in color,
and living,
fertile spring that does not dry,
globes of hanging fruit from trees shaded,
their leaves broad shelters,
like stars whistling in the breeze,
laughter on the wind,
such peaceful nights of rest,
does one look out into that vast distance,
so lonely,
so full of impossible intrigue,
turning his back to the garden,
to walk alone into those endless miles?

02.18.10


Tuesday, April 13, 2010

The Sons of Switzerland

Sometimes I have no explanation for a poem...



The Sons of Switzerland have demanded my freedom,
and I vow to you...
they will rest uneasy until my chains are broken,
until the windswept fears of isolation have abandoned me
and I have been released from my lofty mountain tower.
They are heavy sleepers,
those Sons of Switzerland,
and good mercy (or quick death)
to the soul that disturbs that slumber.
From my barred window set high in the stone wall
I can see the Earth's history
stretched across craggy peaks dotting a black sea of mist.
Below my window is the story of my own history,
my passage of time scratched in the hard wall,
rock against rock.
The dried blood on my knees is the taste of salvation
that will rally my brothers around our crimson flag,
and I vow to you...
this fortress of death,
its banisters flecked with stars,
its awnings shadowing the moon,
its lifeless eyes that only comfort lifeless forms,
this fortress in all its blackened strength
will crumble before the Sons of Switzerland.
So noble are they,
so set on my redemption,
that no barrier of physical framework will prevent their rescue.
Your tombstones are etched not unlike my back
which has been carved over and over with the whip
whose penmanship has perverted my spine.
Your efforts to suppress my life,
to murder my soul,
to shackle me to the woes of miserable existence,
will soon be visited back upon you through a tribulation
this Earth has yet to know.
So to it they will go,
the rhythm of their marching has begun.
The Sons of Switzerland are coming to take me home.
They are dancing through the villages,
in the valleys,
up the crags,
and I will soon be dancing too.
The lonely night, the shrouded mountain,
is the stillness of my beating heart,
is the slow cadence of the explosion
that will torment my tormentors
and bring this place down around its granite knees,
crushed like the ribs under my pale skin,
a distant memory no more outstanding than any
of the other acuminous shelves that worship the sky.
They are watching you.
They are watching you.
The Sons of Switzerland are marching,
and I vow to you...
my freedom is imminent.

3.20.05

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

The Knife Aficionado

This is about a girl I met at an art gallery opening. At first, her eyes were the most staggering thing about her. And then I found out about her hobby...




She had grey eyes,
like the women in novels,
translucent,
soft blue and not quite emerald green,
a moody ocean,
yet very still, quiet,
alarming,
terrible,
and emphatically beautiful,

we met in an art gallery,
eccentric twisted abstract paintings,
full of color,
of chaos,
explosions on the well-lit walls,
but only distant stars to me,
fading and dull,
obsolete reflections in the glory of those eyes,
she stops me at the door,

Is that a K-bar beneath your jacket?

Just a Bowie knife, I explain,

Do you skin with it? she asks,

and I am lost,
sent tumbling down the metal-grey corridors of her gorgeous eyes.

02.4.10





Saturday, April 3, 2010

Ode to the Supermarket

I used to sell newspaper subscriptions in major retail supermarkets in Colorado. I had to stand behind a little kiosk right in the middle of where everyone needed to walk. I don't think I made very much money but I certainly had plenty of time to write all day.




I've lived my life in the aisles at the supermarket,
walking the linoleum and watching the prices.
For years I've slept soundly under fluorescent lights
and found endless fascination with coin return devices.

I've taken bites out of the conveyor belt at the register
and left feces at the base of the cigarette case.
The floor displays scare me in the dead of night
along with the ground meat mirrors when I catch a glimpse of my face.

I ride the child's train when I can spare a quarter.
I get high on the fragrances in the floral section.
Holiday specials make me vomit.
The smell of the bakery gives me an erection.

When the customers arrive in the day
I follow them and nip at their heels.
By the time they leave with their groceries
they find sadly that I've slashed their wheels.

I've read thousands of labels and ingredients
while doing thousands of laps in the buggies.
I personally own a discount savings card
and have gently impregnated a monkey.

I've cried crocodile tears on the bread aisle
and found peace with myself in the deli.
I've read most every magazine in the store
stuffing each one deep down in my belly.

I've fallen in love with this box shopping place
and can't say that I'll deign ever to leave.
I've licked these floors from corner to corner.
The supermarket is my lifelong dream.

3.27.05