. 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

Tuesday, November 1, 2011


She makes writing easy...

She is time lost,
years spent daydreaming,
her life and body twisted and contorted,
as if shaped by a blind sculptor,
a process of interludes in my imagination,

She is wet clay ever changing,
a form lumped together in my mind,
may or may not be who she really is,

She is a distant satellite,
whose orbit has carried her sometimes close to my world,
and sometimes very far away,
but always visible in my sky,

My heart has been taught to not recognize itself in the mirror,
but it knows her face,
when she opens her door it remembers,
despite what I don’t tell it,
it knows why it came,

She is happy,
and as beautiful as I’ve seen her,
confidently in command of her world,
beaming with pride and self-discovery,

She shows me around,
but all I care to see is her,
her fragile smile,
disalarming eyes,
unkempt clothes,
those impossible tangles longer than I’ve ever seen them,

In her tiny apartment,
not unlike that ghetto pad and window bars,
we talk ‘til exhaustion,
the misplaced words of many years,
many miles since,
the sun comes up and the satellite moves closer,

She is in her panties,
reaching for a bowl of fruit,
and I am reminded that it has always been this way.