. 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 29, 2010

Someone's Sister

A fit of estrogen-induced inspiration hit me one day and I wrote this...

Will you not leave me alone,
growing stone wings that crumble
after so many years,
sad stone face where pigeons land and
pointed iron defends your feet,
old grandmother that walks senile and drops seeds,
oldest boy that hides in your shadow,
tall grass in the park that a city forgets,

I am shaking because you are still here
in your mature red cardigan,
your full breasts hidden but in the shower
I'm jealous,
long hair, long legs
and you do not care,

I hate you in this attic overstuffed with a family's
discarded life,
our family and
our life,
doll houses that existed fantastic broken now,
old beds of heavy wood asleep forever,
Chinese fighting dragon someone's pale memory
of foreign lands,
you belong up here and I do not,

sitting on the ceiling dangling your pumps over
the hall light,
I am trapped without escape by the towering figure of my sister,
so high and so full of love,
I sink saturated with a drowning
and shake,
my own body refusing to catch up,
ideas of admiration lost,
this is an attic not enough to hide in.


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