. 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, December 16, 2010


This is for you, Tank, where-ever the hell you are...

The Tank chewed his food like a machine,
Masticating with tightly coiled springs and levers,
Shifting places along his jaw line where tight the dark blue skin stretched,

This town is a struggle, he told me through

   a mouthful of high school cafeteria bread,
A lump of slick dough turned orange from the mixture of

   spaghetti and meatballs pooled at the entry into his throat,

He was alive with conviction,

You just try to live this way, he said,
No one ever said we only get one go-round on the

I’m getting’ out,

His yellow eyes were distant,

A waxen sheen coated his forehead,
Discordia played in his brain,

He ran the mile after school and beat the boys by

   a hard minute,
Pistons in the sugarcane trenches,
Snatching sweet stalks to chew on in the golden moments of

   his aftermath,
When sweat would turn his red shirt purple,

You still remember, he asked me once,

Remember when you had that dream you could fly?
You woke up and felt heavy?
I had that same dream too,
(I didn’t dare believe that he was crying)

He said,

Remember me when you’re older,

Alex Grandville died on July the 2
nd, 1972,
In his sleep,
When his father placed a pillow over his head

   and held it there.


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