. 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

Sunday, May 15, 2011

His Only Answer

Faith, hope, love... but the greatest is love...

She spoke:
Even in the dead center of the night,
When my face is in darkness and I cry
     but cannot discover the reasons for my tears…

And he answered:
I will love you then…

She spoke:
Even when the weight of the world
     falls heavy on my shoulders,
When I know better to suffer under such a burden,
But bear the load bent and stooped to the duress of my soul…

And he answered:
I will love you then…

She spoke:
Even when the words inside my head
     don’t match those that stumble from my lips,
Lost thoughts and mismanaged sentences,
When those words sting and pierce
     and are thrown carelessly at you…

And he answered:
I will love you then…

She spoke:
Even when my heart is broken and my vision clouded,
When my judgment is not fit to be considered,
When I am but a lost little girl
     in the flesh of someone supposedly older and wiser,
When I cannot trust my legs to stand
     but need your arms to prop me up,
When my soul is shaken by the countless fears inside me…

And he answered:
I will love you then…

She spoke:
Even when my weaknesses surpass my strengths,
When my doubts overrun my confidence,
When the neurons in my brain get scrambled
     by the hormones in my body,
When the flesh you long to touch
     begins to wear and tear,
When my cowardice holds me back,
When my suspicions go unwarranted,
When my failures outpace my successes,
When you find me in a corner,
And find me bruised,
And find the parts that need repair,
When you finally see through all my smoke,
Exposed for who I really am,
With nothing left to hide…

And he answered:
I will love you then…

She spoke in a whisper:

But he could not answer,
For there are answers more mysterious than words,
Finally he said:
I will love you then
I will love you forever
And always…

And she knew it to be true.


Sunday, May 8, 2011

The Pig Wig and the Lil' White Tiny Tot

This is a poem about a little cute white girl who thought she was brave enough to stop off at a ghetto grocery store after work to pick up a few items...

Yours is the end of the workday,
that long and lasting stench of jailhouse sweat,
pheromones of little girl pleasure from the dirty clothes
     that cling to your sharp shoulders and prominent breasts,
Lo’ the day is long and those black iron bars shut tight,
those demons chased like kit foxes through
     the parish prison,
until every criminal is reprieved,
every crime de-mystified,
and you’ve left it all so very far behind,

So you heft your wavy hair with a simple pin,
pencil skirt your thighs and lock your car,
tell yourself you’re not afraid,
not the fancy fresh faced little thing that inmates love,
not the slender waist and teasing ass,
sharpened corners that cut eyes,
casting sidelong glances behind you where each and every
     exit becomes a stinging rationalization,

The Pig Wig doors are a mouth agape,
soaking up your perfumed wrists,
breathing on you the stale air of unkempt vegetables and fetid rodents’ whispers,
come hither, little baby girl,
so we can taste your fine salty sun brown skin,
so we can lift your skirt and set you spinning,
from one prison to another,
for a bucket of milk,
expired and unattended,

The Pig Wig Four-Corners Grocery Store,
The Pig Wig County Corrections Facility,
yellow eyes and bleeding mouths of soapy saliva,
dank hollow aisles of forgotten perishables and edibles,
strangers are zombies are the convicts you only recently
    left behind,
where there were the bars of justice to protect your precious head,
in the Pig Wig you are not as sheltered,
opened cages,
bread and produce and canned goods but no deputies,
only panties and fingernails and feet to run as fast as you can,
expired milk the lost child left behind,
its open arms calling from the freezer,
your keys in your hand,
the milk on the shelf,
but better the milk than you,
better the milk than you,
your last visit to that abomination the Pig Wig.



Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Hold Me

Recognizing techniques in reverse. The rest is from the heart...

Hold me
Like the mud rich waters of the Euphrates River,
Like Haley Mombassi,
Like the Diarrhea Twins –
     who shit for giggles…

Hold me
Like the stench of rotting road flesh
     in Louisiana’s August,
Like that girl at the zoo –
     little Mexican Celeste,
Like a voodoo curse –
     praise the lawd, ma’am…

Hold me
Like a used leather saddle under a black man’s ass –
     riding a blue roan through the ghetto,
     sparks on the concrete…

Hold me
Like the mysteries beneath the Nile –
     long dead king’s and queens crying crocodile tears,
     Pharaoh’s sail barge lost at sea,
     Moses roasting hot dogs over a burning bush…

Hold me
In the deep dimples of your breasts –
     where smooth-faced babes perch,
     and snake blue veins encircle the towers of your nipples,
In the den where you mix grave potions –
     rice, roast and gravy aphrodisiac,
     shampoo and the secrets of the universe,
In the beveled chambers of the guns on your hips –
     my fingers pursuing you in the contours there,
     the lines of your figurehood cast like rising pistol smoke,
In the clouded and caliginous swirls of your burned eyes –
     where I once would not look,
     but find them now floating before me always,
In that space between your tongue and your lips –
     where pregnant breath gives birth to “I love you’s”,
     those savory sons genesis coupling of the heart and soul,
     where I am held your captive
     and forever…