. 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, June 11, 2012

These Hands That Touch You

Space and sex and violence and love. I promise I'm a normal guy...


These hands that touch you
Once took life too
Smearing ashes on your cheeks
Black mascara deltas form into rivers
     and cascade off the edge of the world
A million miles away a planet is swallowed by a too hot star
First quietly collapsing into white light
Preparing itself to die
And then taking back every celestial body it once gave birth to
Like an angry mother disappointed in her creation
Blinding the loneliness of space with a camera flash bang
For an instant
A moment of eternal time
Registered here under the dull moon by a simple twinkle
Where once there was everything
There is nothing
My fingers find the cusp between your shirt and your jeans
Transparent skin holding your body together
Count your ribs
Trace the surface where below lie your
Kidneys
The outline of your liver
Pancreas
Spleen
Precious lungs
In them a well placed small caliber round will open a clean hole
     and drain the air from your body in bubbling whispers
Rattlesnakes in your chest
Supernova in your heart
A warm night full of dangerous shadows
Ghosts in the corners of your eyes
Spider webs in your mouth
Let’s dance around your spinal column
Holding your sharp hips
Don’t ask me my name
Or where I’ve been
The answers will revisit you when you sleep
The electric street lights buzzing and the dizzy avenues
Valleys of toy soldiers
Night huddled in a boxcar around a cold grey rifle
A million miles away: the dead star
Grizzlies hunting in the woods outside
I think to myself
I love you
But you’ll never hear me say it
I want to take you home tonight
But I can’t quite remember where that is anymore.

3.4.2012

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