. 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, September 15, 2011

Ode to the Mosquito

I was born and raised in South Louisiana... Basically, it was a matter of time before this poem was written...

Little Wily Shit-Winged Bat,
Him with the thousand brothers,
Times ten thousand more,
Proboscis needle-nosed vampire
     walking the vast tundra of my skin on six striped legs,
Who cannot speak but whines incessantly instead,
The sound which tunnels through my ear canal
     and deep into my brain,
Into my heart,
My soul,
A sound that no man can fall asleep to.

Little Perpetual Purveyor of the Water of Life,
A connoisseur to all varieties of the finest human blood,
Deviant drunkard dancing languid on someone’s soft flesh,
Feckless curiosity be the owner a cook or a queen,
Whose toes have you tickled tonight,
And at what cost, my tiny friend?
How are you so unconcerned in the peril of your own minute life
     as you attempt to steal some of mine?

Little Dark-Horse Angel of Death,
What manner of mayhem do you bring today?
What kind and loving God would
     breathe you into existence,
And for what purpose?
To give us a reason to stand in the bed of a pickup truck
     and spray heather mists into our neighborhoods?
To validate stagnant water?
To populate the forests with millions of unseen thirsty minions?
Or to canvas our skin with your puncture marks
     and give new use to our fingernails other than for back rubs and biting?

Little One-Horned Wonder
     hiding in the corner of my room,
My tent,
My car,
A drinking straw permanently attached to your face,
Born a thief of the living,
A bird on the wing,
You both fascinate and annoy the hell out of me!
For what creature is there that exists,
Who but you can I smash on the wall
     yet still spill my own guts when I do?!


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