. 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

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Washington DC

The capital city... Capitol.

Washington DC is burning,
The antiquated palisades of dogwood and rhododendron
     give way to Lynchburg hollers,
give way to river gorge canyons,
give way to rolling horse-farm country,
give way to manicured lawnscapes,
until the eventual unfolding of the District of Columbia,
that Potomac River city
     of white-washed concrete monuments to Capitalism.

The Georgetown flames are more than can be contained

     in a freshly baked oven pizza smokehouse,
toxic beers of international origin,
a confluence of governors and the young well-groomed political activists
     that will become them
roam the clean concrete sidewalks beyond our seedy peep hole,
yellowed glass that hides our skin-thirsty eyes,
each sip of our coffee black beers enlivens the madness,
until we are face-to-face with the ghost of George Washington,
his ethereal spirit dances in the first purge of a plastic whiskey bottle,
clatters in the sparkling ice cubes possessed of bouncing cruel brilliance,
a black man spins his yarn,
the DC derelict,
dead days of the heroine purge,
my brother,
my man.

We unite at the rooftop tavern,

the last of us to spill his drink,
becoming more invincible with each new blow to the liver,
erasing all memory of the seconds behind us,
young devils in the night,
we are the forthcoming drug dealer,
we are the young silly girls who slip and tease,
we are the sleeping Congress,
we are the late-night diner milk shake,
where the bills are made into laws,
and the laws into men,
and when men are made
     there is nothing that can be done to stop us.


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