. 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 3, 2011


I witnessed the scene of this poem once, felt the tide turning, saw the dust and the mayhem and how she stepped out in front of them, those whose shifty eyes and swollen veins betrayed the lunacy inside of them. She stepped out and with her arms raised, did not hesitate inside her heart to believe they would stop...

She waved them off,
sweet baby chubby,
legs spread, arms waving wildly,
like a dancing monkey in the dusty alley,
patron saint of the thunder hooves,
beating against the hard earth,
drumming for rain,
they bore down upon her,
reaching with their long legs,
and no longer stepping lightly,
to the priestess, Loleena,
giving confession to Catholic school girls with perky breasts,
blessing them with the ammonia smell of horse piss,
blue-eyed Loleena,
tubular sections of torso,
a moustache of light sweat,
her sunburned arms did not belong to that pasty belly,
they charged,
in panic and purposeless,
dark sweat of summer sun along their necks,
sweet baby chubby Loleena,
she was not afraid that day,
she waved them off,
bastard beasts of regalia,
sliding across the stark and cracked ground,
corralled by the stallion,
blue-eyed Loleena.


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