. 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

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

For the Men Who Walked in Zion

The ecstasy of pain. The exultation of thirst. The elation in the destruction of the body. All for those miles. And those sights. The rapture of being alive on the dusty trail...

There passed four bearded bastions lusting for the manifold wonders of life,
Thirsty as desert dogs to sip the swift currents of adventure,
Their heart sails ravaged by the monotonous minutes spent too long in the presence of that vile seed, the Every Man,
They fled his kind into high country canyons and the deep arroyos of the West,
Hard land where things lived with empty stomachs,
Where water bled from rocks,
Where lizards jump from shade to shade and eye such trespassers with curiosity,
Bold oarsmen of action these men were,
Rowing with the wooden paddles of manly discourse their humble steed,
Long past her painted prime,
Her blue coat a miasma of rusted craters,
Only a passionate kiss from the driver would elicit her four cranky cylinders into motion,
With a sanguine smile they bade her wait for them,
And so she waited,
Glorious miles of lonely foot falls through the boulevards of sky-high canyon columns,
Down the avenues paved with God’s stone,
And the corridors of ankle-swallowing sand,
Stinging nettles along the trail-side wait like lions for their prey,
A lifeless rat in the water supply,
Blue Iodine in the eggs,
Whiskey fires on the plateau,
Complete pre-moon darkness and the stars dancing in the infinite distance,
Wrapping themselves around each other,
Chasing their tails,
Disappearing into the blue smoke of glowing cigars,
A welcoming wind of fresh cold air in the morning,
To greet their ground battered bones,
Their greasy hair,
Their reluctant metamorphosis from the twisted shells of sleeping bags,
Arise to walk the earth,
To bear the burden of one’s existence on his shoulders,
To don dusty boots cracked and worn,
Joy is pain and blood is life on the trail,
Baptized in a river of ice,
Their dirt washed downstream like the sins from a newborn babe’s forehead,
Four bearded bastards sun-bathing on naked rocks displayed like drying deer-skin for the trolley,
Tick-full of fat tourists with grey hair and the bygone memories of orgasms and chance-pleasures long left behind,
Some men walked the desert to arrive at that river,
Some men took a bus,
Some men will live their entire lives and never hear the blood cold cry of a bull elk in the pines.


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