. 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

Monday, March 28, 2011

That Night at the Renaissance

An old friend visits the South and together, in a smokey dive bar neither of us has ever been to before, we encounter a mammal unlike any other in our known species...



The lizards hidden behind the palace walls
   are the few rain drops,
leaving the storm to its downpour-ways outside,
penetrating nooks and shimmying through unseen places
   to fall or plummet,
to dive headlong from the black ceiling,
avoiding deadends in a maze of multi-colored stage lights.

What once was nestled twenty thousand feet above the downtown scene
   in a brooding mother cloud of smog and chemicals
      now drops as heavy as sin,
randomly on the misguided heads of a swaying crowd,
a room filled to capacity and wall-to-wall,
ancient bricks eternally smelling of a century's worth of cigarette smoke
   chaperones the denizens.

Skinny jeans and thin shoes,
ear-rings and cocky tattoos and black wandering eyes,
they are sickly animals thirsty for the devil's rhythm
   and bathing orgiestically together under what once were raindrops,
in basement-darkness we confess before the alter,
grimy and sweaty and too many faceless black t-shirts.

Electric bomp, bomp, bomp.
Electric twang as his fingers slap.
Electric crash.

He wears two hats on his skullish head and reminds me
   that the moon is full of cheese - is disgusting,
a one hat salute without uncovering his sopping stringy hair.

Electric voice that rocks the house.

The Editor and I exchange what must be glances,
our lungs dying in the moments that pass,
sipping too many and back for more,
more,
closer and closer
   to distinguish the mad-hatter's clumsy head in a frame between his fingers,
holding his odd instrument, happy to oblige,
our night is short with rushed back-talk and conversation
   that cannot linger,
plans made and promises broken,
the Tower eludes us,
That 1 Guy stands before us,
as Sunday falls apart in the downtown rebirth of chance encounter,
the dashing apart of water molecules too many to count on the heads of the damned.

11/2007

4 comments:

  1. i thought this was going to be about the hurricane. at the renaissance festival.

    ReplyDelete
  2. That would make a good poem though. Here's to tossing it around...

    ReplyDelete
  3. Was I there? You made it vivid again from when I was, if not.

    ReplyDelete