. 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

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Gone a Long Time

I know I only wrote this one back in May, but I honestly can't remember what in the wide world it was supposed to be about. I guess that means I'm in the same boat as you are, reader. Let's enjoy this one together...

It’s over, isn’t it?
James stood motionless,
his heart a conundrum,
Pandora’s box of fractured bulb fragments,
where once a filament glowed softly in a vacuum,
his whiskers flecked with ashes,
soot from a thousand campfires where bled the trails of thin tears,
a man’s life in the scrum below his fingernails,
ten crescent moons,
black and bitten.

She captured him in her heart,
that vacant tomb whose walls were etched with the names of lovers lost,
encrypted tapping in the stone corridor,
her head thrown back and mouth agape,
his memories aloft,
disconnected ripples in the puddle below his boot,
footprints in the mud,
from the trail to her door,
that distant fading trail,
I’m sorry, she said,
you’ve been gone a long time, James.


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