. 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, 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.


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