. 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, March 29, 2012

Crazy Night in the Mos Eisley Cantina

This one was written to be recited aloud, rather than read, in a SLAM poetry style, but I'm archiving it here for the hell of it because it's fun. No explanation of the subject matter needed. If you get it, great. If not, it wasn't for you...

Another fight,
Another night,
That’s what you’re thinking,
Not this time,
Not tonight,
I saw one of those laser swords – made of light,
Blue-white and buzzing bright,
Imagine my delight!

Some punk farmhand at the bar,

Underage no doubt,
Actin’ out,
Swinging his big dick like he knows
     what the Mos Eisley Cantina is all about,
This little bean sprout called out some
     crushed-faced killa with a pig snout,
This is fuckin’ Tatooine,
We’ve got enough problems with droughts,
     Imperial scouts and krayt dragons crawling about,
Now in comes this kid fresh off a T-16 Skyhopper route,
Bustin’ up in our bar in clean white linens
     like a shiny trout that no one on this planet knows anything about!

This nasty pig bitch claims he’s some kind of criminal drafter,

Pulls out a blaster,
Points it at the kid aiming to do some bad damage,
Starts off with a little laughter,
But gets madder and madder,
Bout to pull the trigger but then out of nowhere
     comes some mystical grandmaster,
Turns out the old man’s faster,
Cranks up that light sword and causes disaster,
The pig pretty much empties his bladder when this old fart
     cuts through his arm in a curving sweep of his pretty blue dagger,
What’s up now, pig,
What’s the matter,
Where’s all that hard chatter,
Better pick up your dismembered limb and wipe up that blood spatter.

I promise that’s how it went down,

That’s what I saw,
The story of this old man in a drab gown handling
    his shit is all over town,
Even had a big Wookie behind him,
Tall, dark and brown,
Growling like he’s always got some reason to frown,
They picked the kid up off the ground lucky to still
     have the blonde hair on his crown,
Handled their business and headed off to
     where ever they were bound,
Some gunslinger even threw a credit to the overweight bartender
     and said something profound,
But I missed that part,
The band started back up and their fluty music drowned out the sound.


Saturday, March 24, 2012

Austin Home Tour

A couple of misfits having fun in other people's high end houses...

We traipse through crowded halls
     of the homes of modern architecture,
her painted toes on the tile,
standing in elegant and empty shower stalls,
jasmine and coral blue,
fingerprints on the polished metal of the dials,
tempting the rain water faucet above,
hidden in the skylight,
checking to see if the neighbors
     could see her breasts if we dared,
that easy tone of how we’ve always been
     still evident between us,
even after these years,

I lift my hand to knock but she is at the door,

a deadbolt clicks inside,
the latch is withdrawn,
for all my fear,
my premonitions and illusions,
sometimes beginning a new chapter is as
     easy as turning a page,
she is there,
years mean nothing,
and are like days,
like minutes,
reaffirming my belief in the power of two souls connected,

High dollar wine in a thief’s hands,

local beer honey gold,
and tiny chocolates,
our words soup,
our lips adamant,
we fall easily into conversation,
making up for lost time,
although nothing seems to have been lost at all,
she holds her finger under the lamp,
but the thorn is immovable,
a foreign body in her skin,
a visiting stranger,
my concealed delight to hold her icy digits and fight the
     thorn beside her,
as if I care anything about that thorn,
only her hand in mine,

We carry on,

and on,
and on,
like padded footsteps through these eco-friendly homes,
we bare a little more of our hearts,
exploring the oddly open corridors of this friendship,
a tight-rope at times,
a broad avenue,
always wandering,
always wonder,
until I sink the perfect free-throw and
     win her love all over again.


Thursday, March 15, 2012

Still Wanting You

From the ol' heartbreak files. Can't never get enough...

You’ve broken our vow of silence,
unspoken and sacred as it was,
and now I am two men again,
alone without you,
tired of loving you,
now a mad man who wanders in cloudy solitude,
a broken human machine,
cursed not by a devil,
but by an angel.

What is it about my existence that you still need?
Some lost connection in your brightly perfect soul,
that in your genuine and boundless desire for my friendship,
you destroy me.

I am no longer an island
     but a pair of them,
a murky channel of undefined depth between the two,
I sleep next to someone new these nights
     pledging my love to her,
yet I cannot stop writing poetry about you.


Friday, March 9, 2012

Blood for Blood

It's been a hard life, y'all...

We play this blood for blood
And gasoline
Vile thoughts born years ago
Of men in Death Masks
Death March
He comes in a crooked knife
Clean marble tiles
Metallic stall doors
The watchman’s axe goes clink clink on the polished floor
A hooker with blow in her brain
Blood on her fake tits and perpetually hard nipples
On the toilet seat below her
Her lifeless eyes open and a spray pattern on the wall behind her

No one can see me in the street
Sleeping taxi men
Night chill and the blinking stop lights
Broken rear windshield
Glass on the HK45 compact in the back seat
A twinkling star pattern dancing with the faces of orange tenements
A warm suppressor
And somewhere
Somewhere in the empty city behind me
The fading police sirens
Laser light show
Fake passport in the bathroom trash
Spinning wheels until the morning

They sold their organs
First Rule in a knife fight:
Everybody get’s cut
Asian Trinket Men with the same face
Seoul food
Reaching into their jackets
Cut-throat instigators
Agitators in the meat locker
We found her with her chest sewn shut
Her kidneys in a foreign country
Golden tusks
Pinky-finger ring
White powder in plastic bags
Ice on the eyes in the ice-chest

We are the Devil’s thieves
Page boys with blood on our hands
Knives in our boots
Of Men and Mice
And Shadows
Daily combat of heart and muscle
Of guts and will
Of flesh and bone and unseen things in-between
To reclaim our lost humanity
Blue Goose footsteps in the hall
We volunteer to rise when Death enters the chamber
To shirk our daily chores
Suffer the world on our shoulders
And bear the scars of sacrifice and shame for the rest of our lives


Sunday, March 4, 2012

In The Company of Friends

A campfire in the woods, toasting to a million stars and the sounds of the lake in the dark distance...

There is madness at my door,
Will we die as old men, as old
     men are oft to do?
Or in tragic fashion as is common
     among the youth?
The priest bows his head,
A wreath of grey hair rings his shiny
     skull like a crown of thorns,
The bath water turns yellow
     with my piss,
But is dissolved,
I am filth,
A friend dances in New York City wearing
     crow’s leggings,
Tall skinny poet,
His ten year black box breather at an end,
The director’s intermission
     is the actor’s curtain call.

There are voices outside my door,

The forest smells like smoke even
     before the fire begins to burn,
What visits us in the night?
Water covers the trail and
     forces us to turn back,
The forest is flooded,
Footsteps fall in splashes but no
     traces of their comings and goings are
          left in the morning,
Do we have decades?
Or only years left?
We share our sins until the once hot coals
     turn to ash,
And the darkness is complete.