. 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 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,
calling,
calling,
dying,
but better the milk than you,
better the milk than you,
your last visit to that abomination the Pig Wig.

7.2010

 

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