. 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, September 7, 2010


The trip is winding down, but not the good times...

Tulsa is burning,
her emerald spires rising out of the tepid ash of industrial smoke,
an oasis of culture bleeding into the Arkansas River,
grey rain running down the penthouse glass,
down the windows outside our Irish pub,
down the soft features and full lips of a Lebanese woman,
her dark hair pressed in knots against her temples,
we dance in women’s underwear
     and swim in children's pools,

Oklahoma fourth of July,

bigfoot in the bushes,
fireworks ablaze in the low-lying thunder clouds,
Cedars asleep in the stifling heat of the parking garage,
flip-flops in my back pocket
     and barefoot on the dance floor swinging girls to hip-hop beats,

Wallflower'd and one more mixed whiskey,

a pearl of sweat runs down her jaw line,
untamed track it slides down her neck and past a thin collarbone
     disappears into the fabric clinging to her slippery skin,
the temptations of Tulsa,
that permeable boundary of translucent shimmering strength,
our eyes are pepper-flecked with madness,
like zombies intent on the consumption of flesh,
like lions freshly bamboozled by tranquilizer darts,
like sharks,
where there be blood in the water,
in the throng of flashing lights and hammering bodies,
blood in the water,
dirty feet I wade back in.


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