. 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, September 12, 2010


One more stop before heading home...

Austin is burning,
hipsters toasting on blankets in the park,
blue jean shorts so short
    the pale precious silk of soft vaginal lips are on proud display,
a scooter gang rolls up under electric power pseudo-offensive blitzkrieg,
pushing kick-stands down with Converse,
wiping the road grime from their nonprescription glasses with
     tissue found in low slung shoulder bags,
we are strewn willy-nilly,
blankets and bodies and bottles of wine in the grass,
fixated on the white screen before us,
twenty-somethings worshiping life,
in love with art and music or the idea of,

A chestnut haze cascades from on high,

concentric circular crown glowing at the apex of guardian moon towers above,
warding off the criminals and dissolving Andromeda,
authentic beef burritos sizzle somewhere nearby,
little Juanita calling from the trailer,
Hola, amigos!
Venga y coma!
her mother stirs authentic Mexican sauces in the cramped confines
     of their tiny kitchen caravan,
Juanita lives this life,
lives it and no other,

Austin is burning,
every vintage shop and resale thrift store turned to soot,
the tat parlors seared like the permeable ink of their countless customers,
credible vegan meals burnt to a blackened crust,
organic hot tamales and hamburgers at the downtown farmer’s market
     mix into ash blown from the saxophone of a troubled middle school musician,
the greenbelts emptied of their homeless,
endless trails of joggers juiced on natural runner’s high,
an ongoing parade of sports bras dancing in various colors and shapes,
determined citizens deterring body fat,
unified by this unmistakably unique plateau city,

We bathe naked in the clear springs of the arroyos,
unconcerned with who might find us,
because no one cares,
not in Austin,
a tennis match is in heat nearby through the trees,
kayakers fish the deeper currents downstream,
an Armstrong army of peloton bicyclists whip by on the bridge overhead,
urban bats sweep low to clear the air of biting insects,
echoing to one another to retain friendships forged in flight,
in the distance, past our sun-touched skin,
erect high-rises skirt the horizon,
beautiful blue glass,
they catch the sun’s hard rays and throw it back into the world,
exploding and on fire,
Austin is burning.


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