. 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, February 10, 2011

Listening to her Words

City boys and girls released to play cowboys and cowgirls in the mountains for a summer...

Jenni hid her eyes when we talked,
placing a strand of thin hair behind her ear,
the profile of her boy's blue eyes
not enough for my consolation

so I talked to her high cheek bones instead.

Her teeth were too white for genetics
or her skin was too dark for her teeth,
I wondered what it would be like to kiss such thin lips,
perhaps like kissing a gun shot wound

and would she use her tongue?

Jenni frustrated me when she talked
because I wouldn't look into her eyes when she spoke,
I watched her bright belt buckle,
wanting to bite it to test the validity of its gold,
looking for a panty line on her hip
under her Wranglers wrapped tight
around the sticks of her long legs.

We carried on
afraid of the length of our conversation
but neither sure how to successfully end it.
I looked at her face and begged her to look back.
When she looked at me I followed the pearl buttons
down her checkered shirt
trying not to stare at her flat chest.

Our words floated between us in misery,
on a soft blanket of awkwardness that
we would forget in a matter of minutes.
Jenni was never beautiful

except when I talked to her.


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