. 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, December 15, 2011

The Road at Night

Just driving. Pulling over and writing under the glow of whatever streetlight is nearby. Letting the miles and the sounds and the wind speak for themselves...


There’s a lot’a Scotties out tonight,
Free-moon babies basking
Like a beached well,
Except without the whale’s anxious panic,
His startled dark eye as big as my fists
Coiled now like toy snakes
Hammering
Hammering
Beating a drum beat onto my mother’s still chest,
Blaming it on my father,
On everyone I loved,
As long as I didn’t have to blame it on myself.

A hobo’s gloves in the darkness,
The tac resting at a thousand RPMs,
A fine mist of high octane fuel
Flowing effortlessly through the venturi,
Purring
Purring
Someone’s headlight blinds me for a second,
And I am light too,
A million years before,
And a million years hence,
In everything there is God,
This engine,
These tires,
This road.

The light leaves and I a man again,
A human of flesh and bone
And sin,
Connected to the bones of Adam
Through every
Ant
Tick
Flea
And dinosaur,
A bleeding vessel prone to weakness,
And apt to die,
Where there is no one to safely bring me back.

12.2011

4 comments:

  1. well, whale, wales!!

    ReplyDelete
  2. you speak truth at a moment's notice. i hope you're on call for this year's annual rebirth of the verbal beat.

    ReplyDelete
  3. got mah pager on my hip.

    ReplyDelete