. 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, May 5, 2010


An early poem inspired by something I can no longer remember, but which now has a sort of relevance to me as more and more of my friends enter marriages and create children and sort of drift away into another reality beyond my own - a monogamous, closely guarded solar system whose patterns and orbits I can do nothing to relate to. These are those gathering tombstones. One by one by one...

Should I make each word
     my last?
Should I treat you like you’re leaving?
Should I treat you like a ghost?

I will live on forever.
Each day closes with another night
     at its end.
I know I’ll see a thousand more.
I’ll see.
And see.
But I can’t survive the tombstones
     of my friends.

Guitar chords float away
     into the night,
Like the sparks that escape the fire,
Like breath from your lungs,
Like holy Gospel from the Preacher’s lips.

He begs you to save your soul,
Which he says will live on forever.
And with that I’d settle,
I’d be satisfied.
But souls don’t make good friends,
And I can’t survive the tombstones
     of my friends.