. 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

Friday, July 6, 2012

The Shotgun and the Last Letter

Inspired by the darkness of love and one of my favorite scenes from television...

Red jacket 10-guage birdshot in the break-barrel 
     on the seat beside me,
Resting like a quiet passenger,
The radio glows in the darkness between us,
Too low to hear,
But I keep it on to remind me that there is still a world 
     alive somewhere,
The city is warm and smells like the ocean,
Street lights seem lonely at this hour but I can make them 
     become comets the faster I push the car,
Empty streets inviting madness into my mind,
But there is only calm there,
I push back the feeling that nothing exists,
That I could jerk the wheel and flip this car and not feel a thing,
Perhaps I was never born,
Or perhaps my heart stopped when I took that first breath of air,
And this has all been a dream,
Maybe I’m still in my mother’s arms,
Her tears falling among the discarded goodbyes,
Lifeless and cold,
Flying through a city of dying stars filled with 
     memories that never were,
A sawed-off shotgun at my side,
My last friend,
For now, neither of us speaks,
Though we both have much to say,
Tonight we’ve somewhere to be,

Against my lips I clutch your letter I meant to send:
I need to know,
It says,
I need to know if it was real,
I need to know if those parts of me that I gave away 
     were squandered like flower petals in a storm,
Or if your love gave them meaning,
Do you still remember what it feels like to hold my hand?
To hold me inside of you?
To cry so hard at the senselessness of life,
That your words became a torrent and washed away your dreams,
Did we hurt for nothing?
Did we break each other’s hearts like vandals tossing rocks at 
     windows in an abandoned warehouse?
Did it matter that we wrestled unto death,
With our own fears,
With our love,
Did it matter,
Does any of it matter?
I need to know.

The shotgun sleeps for now,
Nestled not like a killing thing in the caramel leather of my convertible,
But like a small bird,
There are things I must do,
That I can never return from,
Things only done in this darkest hour of the night,
When the city has no face,
Nor can see a man’s tears,
Were there tears to see,
No, it’s no longer the ocean I smell,
But blood,
Black as the deepest recesses of the heart,
Not accessible to me,
Accessible only to my friend in the seat beside me,
Eyeing me,
Daring me to believe in anything otherwise,

I hold your letter in the current over the windshield,
Release my fingers,
And do not look back as you flutter to the asphalt behind me,
Somewhere in the night.


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