. 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

Wednesday, September 1, 2010


A trip into the maw...

Manhattan is burning,
the doughnut pub’s palatable pastries set afire in a blazing inferno
     of round rolling inner tubes decorated  in multi-colored sugars,
chocolate cream filled sprinkled glazes of twisted cinnamon,
smoldering police cars dressed in the drab of yellow taxi cabs,
incinerated underground pool halls awash in the flat fluorescent tones
     of muted green lights hanging from the bottom of the floor above,
where Chinese children proselytize their tiny golden bodies bent
     backwards over the edge of a billiards game -
American thongs on proud display,
cross-bike motorcycle gangs in the street riding tricks for
     unconcerned and inconvenienced New York City motorists,
we were always searching for the perfect slice to sooth what seemed
     like a never-ending absinthe daze,
that one pure sugar-cube flame as blue as the blinking light atop
     Rockefeller Plaza,

Manhattan is aglow with the cat stained orange tongues
     of a maddening blaze,
our curls and such honey bee hostess,
her stamen invitation at the open window drawing to her hive
     wayward worker bee’s tired from too much travel,
magnolia blossoms ink stained decorations on her arms
     carved into her soft skin like an architect’s ultra-modern master floor plan,
the subway trains, like mechanical worms emitting white hot sparks,
     are alive beneath our feet,
sending gentle vibrations up the building’s pipes to tremble
     our uncovered flesh where it sits at ease on a cold toilet seat,
high-heel pumps and Vermont cheese,
erecting flagships in Shanghai and cornerstones in Beijing
     where rest the thrones of handbag kings and queens,

Brooklyn is a mess of still-smoking embers once brownstones for
     hipsters and private detectives,
her tortilla factories lost shells of burned metal covered in guacamole,
     spicy sauces, a bean paste and fresh chicken,
three bedroom apartment that fits in my closet,
the folding kitchen table-top and the head-height book shelves of playwrights,
     poets and master Hungarian smut directors,
the guitar shimmers,
the lost checkerboard memories fading even now in a haze of local fog
     too thick to allow thought,
the tall, skinny one whose paper-thin legs address the space with discomfort,
bend irregularly at the joints,
weak wrist joints and wet hair,
Brooklyn’s finest,
a hop, skip and a jump from here to NYU,

Manhattan is over-trodden by the soulless boots of insensitive sunray soldiers,
sidewalks become molten concrete rivers,
drivers shout out with incessant car horns as they ride the undulating
     heat wave that melds rubber and tar in a Venetian blacktop canal,
gondola taxis and angry delivery truck boatmen,
we eye the Central Park lakes with envy,
barred from entry,
catch a lift with ten thousand corporate runners beneath the leaves
     and share in the winner’s spoils absent being winners,
just a couple of kids passing through,
high-slung backpacks laden not with cooking pots and folding knives but
     with pearl snaps and perfume,
survival gear in the big city,
burning all around us,
one nonstop drink at a time.


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