. 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

Monday, August 16, 2010

Riches Don't Dance on the Silver Wings of Promise




The midnight dance of the white butterfly
a golden lilac has never known before,
dwarfed in inferiority by the human condition
like a sour grape in the vineyard of life.

Alone the queen sits, never having lived or
raised her flag on the ramparts of others
to flutter
willy-nilly
at the discretion of the wandering wind.

Her finger becomes a cobble-stoned street of goose flesh,
a sugary refuge to the battered butterfly and
they both feel the retribution of an
ugly past.

Buried in a disinterested flower garden is
the withered shell of a memory untouched,
the shade of the sun hotter than it's been in years,
a feeling shared in the nonexistent hearts
of both the white butterfly and the grey queen.

Lightly, she thought, she'd win the war
though not so feather-light as to match the crystal scales of her tiny guest.
The broken parts of their oddly skeletal lives
floated up to meet them in the silver hour of the night,
a golden petal like an eagle in a crowded forest,
it cried neither sweetness
nor sorrow
but drifted as if a lazy thing and disappeared into the black.

The queen fell asleep in a mountain of silk dreams,
conquered treasures of a little girl.
The white butterfly alighted,
its knuckled nest a fist of quivering chaos below it,
and determined
its shimmering wings echoed in search of other thronely pleasure.

4.18.05


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