. 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, August 22, 2010

Knew Orleans

Now that I am in New Orleans almost every week, living the hotel life above a city of such dirty romance, I am reminded of another time in my life I often visited the place. A different hotel then. A different time. The same feelings for the city. Here's a poem I wrote back in those days...

Ten stories to next to impossible,
the city seems unreasonable,
unrelenting August heat in the grass quad where the Jesuits sunbathe,
liberals in swimsuits
kissing Father Iggy's feet to make the grade,
cigarette butts in Wolf Pack ash-cans,

Ask and you shall receive,
ask the unanswerable questions,
unrelenting and irregular use of a finger on the fourth floor,
the library with the skin of a church and
twenty-four hour use of fifteen computers bringing broadband to everyone,
math students,
law students,
a communications student,

The people in the town talked like this:

Magazine bore the footprints of a gang of transvestites,
wandering he-she's with leather gloves and switch-blades,
long days absent the buzz that brought entry
brought the trannies instead,
hungry with the perfume of lust in fish-net stockings and Golden Girl wigs,
terror in the midst of confused sexuality and
misguided hormones,
a haven for impossible negotiations with short-term sales clerks,
Magazine Madness that scared the uptown citizens,
the summer of fear,
the summer of short skirts and tucked genitals,
sweat that soaked through and through,
the sheep's wool humidity,
the boutiques,
the fire in the dirty clouds pregnant and pressing,

Now they lock the doors to protect what's overpriced,
the tyrant trannies no longer maraud,
dead to the desires that coursed through their rotten veins sharing space with the diseases,
they pass along like the storms that swirl heavy overhead,
the tourists have returned,
long before the denizens of cobblestone and high-water,

Ten stories demanding a view of it all,
the pigeons for company,
twins to replace the King,
the Thunderbolt Kid follows my movements across the keyboard
and I am alive,
even as the city,
as the search continues,
as the trannies sleep - somewhere alive or somewhere dead.


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