. 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

Monday, April 16, 2012

River Queen

An homage to our annual celebration of the inherent wildness within men and the absolute necessity of releasing that said wildness in places where the forest is deep, the mud thick and the water dark...

River Queen,
Have mercy on us,
Have mercy on our souls,
For what is to come,
For what we are sent out to do,
For spent rifle cartridges in the freshly turned mud
     where they will rest for eternity,
Save those we find and properly throw away
     in veneration for the Natural World,
For the blasted Coke and Sprite cans,
And likewise for the splintered bark behind them,
Oh, River Queen,
Look the other way,
When we delight in the incense that drifts warmly
     from the hot end of a smoking barrel,
Our praises to you drowned out by the sharp crack
     of a depleting 9mm magazine,
Please accept the discarded bones of our feast of meat,
Thrown into your swirling brown currents for slippery catfish
     to curiously investigate but leave disappointed that the strong
          odorous skeletal remains of chickens and pigs
               are nothing for a fish to eat,
River Queen,
In our madness,
In our delusions of grandeur and manly attempts at posterity,
When our dark blood has been dismissed and replaced
     by even darker liquors of foul fiery tastes,
When our tongues have forgotten words,
When our lungs are tarnished and torn,
Our livers depleted of decency,
When our feet fumble at steps an infant has mastered,
River Queen,
Forgive us,
Look down upon us and forgive us,
For we are infected with YOUR madness,
The thud of the drum that resonates from the forest
     where your inky waters flow,
Has infected us,
And now our own hearts beat to that rhythm,
Our souls are dirty because you are,
Our minds are bent because you are,
Oh, River Queen,
True Lord of the Flies,
Do not forsake us,
Baptize us,
Again and again,
Drinking from the same cup as snapping turtles and water moccasins,
Until we come up bobbing like cypress driftwood babes,
Drunkards of gun smoke,
of moonshine,
of pocket knives,
of camaraderie,
of manhood,
We worship you,
River Queen,
And promise to do our best to defile ourselves in your temple.


Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Mon cœur est Lafayette

Fashion show at the Blue Moon Saloon...

Mon cœur est Lafayette
où les jolies filles transpirent quand ils dansent,
Wooden white folding chairs in the garden,
Fat as fuck full moon saying come, little children,
Célébrez avec moi!
Célébrez avec moi!
Dip your fingers into the stars and suck the head,
A Spiral Galaxy of ketchup and mayonnaise
And the sweet sting of the spices in the cuts on your hands,

I walk like sex up her legs
Over her denim hips to sparkle in the golden jewelry
     that dances between her tits,
 Willy-nilly she slings a disinterested gaze into the crowd,
I’d like to sling that shit right back at her feet,
but like a weather worn fool I reach out to catch it,
Burn my hands when she looks at me,
When she looks through me,
Placing one heavy-heeled hoof in front the other,
Riding her own pendulating hips with invisible
     pistols smoking hot in her fists,

Lafayette a les plus belles filles dans le monde,
And what would you have me do??
They wear pheasant feathers on Indian headbands in their hair,
Cloak themselves in clouds,
Eyes painted in the same colors as night-time stories
     and dreams that don’t make it into morning memory,
They’ve forgotten about how we stare at their pebble’d nipples,
Cigarette smoke hanging in soft shapes around their lips,
Bouncing like wayward rabbits and topless behind the curtain,
Sweet sweat gathering in the soft spots on their flesh,
Holy Hell the Moon is pregnant tonight!
Inviting me up, up, up,
To dance in those dark shadow dimples,
Ces lapins de Lafayette,
     avec leurs longues jambes et des seins magnifiques.