. 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

Saturday, September 24, 2011

How Mary Became a Saint

This one is about a wonderful/magical Summer night riding our bicycles around town...

We were moon tossed
saint streets secret playground park
where the diplodocus is measured by the tops of trees
and bats fly willy-nilly through the stars
bending our backs into the cross-cut wind
drowning on the night air
tracks snake behind us in the cast iron glow of
the few street lights like lazy comets at the edge of the grass
we descend in madness through the
sleeping streets
peddling our laughter on the passing doorsteps of strangers
fancy streamers flying from our knuckles
knee-deep in aluminum
and the city
and everything there is to love about life
drifting gently along her spine
where tar and tile and asphalt flow

ardent adventurers were we three
conscious of following some unknown
tickling her tarmac
pushing forward into the future
aloof in the tears that streamed backwards escaping
the corners of our eyes
hopscotch playground plunder from one puddle of light to the next
spilling slippery pearl smoke from the
heartless soul of an apple
concealed in the one corner where the cameras can’t look
stealing each other’s reckless absurdity
sneaking past sleeping soldiers
spinning yarns
and rims
and rooms
kissed softly by the maniacal lips of darkness
of madness
of every joy that rides in with the night

until our tires slipped the bounds of Earth
until our loosed wolf cries echoed off of the
brick and glass canyons of The Drop
and the stars were caught in our hair
and we lost each other again at the end
so they heard us say
we will never be as young as we are now!


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