. 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, September 4, 2011

A Storm in the Field

A fitting poem for a morning like this; my open door sweeps tendrils of summer rain onto the kitchen floor but I don’t care – It’s been raining for two days and there is music in the air, there is still soft skin under my sheets and somewhere, somewhere, Fall is opening her dark, sultry eyes. Perhaps life goes on after all…

The rain collects along my fogged windshield
Gun metal clouds and a drummer in the distance
Stench of workman’s boots
Of the armpits of my shirt
Of that ticklish place behind my balls
My aromatic presence no longer a bother in the long halls of my nostrils
Bread crumbs in the khaki clefts of my crotch as if I am awaiting some horny grey pigeon
Bird boned
Or beak blow job
Take your pick
Outside in the building barometric pressure the air is crisp and certain
Folding over me like a cursed throw rug
In and out through the cracks of my windows
Cracks in my sanity
Cracked heart dulled the chisel of rational behavior

Finally the storm breaks
Some freak wave of atmospheric mayhem with blood sucking fangs and long clawed tendrils searching for destruction
Swallowing the breeze and periodic camera flashes
Ongoing growling in the mist
Her legs spread open and she is wet, wet, wet
Wherever I look
Paddle me, she says
The clouds blend together in a colorless, shapeless mass of floating tissue
Removing from view the world outside of my truck distilled and forgotten and disconnected from the shadows that swim past the ether
A baptism in the tears of lonely mother giants
Heavy heart
Lungs of diseased breath
I watch the world wash away

There is anger in the mob
Crowds with distaste on perch along their dry lips
A fever of sex
A fever of restlessness
A fever void of ambition and swelling to the brink with dreams
Great gray clusters spewing rain and torrent
Willing me to feel alive but my feet are in concrete
And the dreams are just dreams
Dead beneath me
Seedless and short
While my father’s ghost laughs in the distance.


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