. 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

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Go To Twelve

This isn't the first time the supermarket has inspired me to write...

Go to twelve,
said the painter,
old and covered in the dried residue of a lifetime of work,
a whisper on the air,
from the moustache’d lips of a strange gentleman,
a curious Samaritan among the check-out aisles.

Go to twelve,
said the voice inside your head,
a disconnected conscious from the swirling chaos of your everyday thoughts,
an internal suggestion,
willing you to see what you thought you hadn’t,
be lucky that your brain looks out for you when your heart is distracted.

Go to twelve,
said the still voice of the Lord,
whose guidance you trust to steer your steps,
an unmistakable stirring,
somewhere in the invisible an angel smiles,
even among groceries does He work in mysterious ways.

Go to twelve,
said the boy at your side,
tall and skinny and sometimes unaware of the very words that escape his lips,
a likely culprit always,
ever searching for the fastest route,
but currently paying more attention to the girl at his side than to the registers.

Go to twelve,
came the voice,
and so you do,
empty conveyor belt,
lonely cashier waiting for a customer,
that customer who just happens to be you,
ode to perfect timing,
and thank you…
whoever you were,
(although it was probably the painter).


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