. 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

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Gypsy Honey Whiskey

Gypsy honey whiskey
White sheep winter
Pearl snaps to my Adam’s apple
And the smell of dust
Strangers with Ipods in their ears on passing planes overhead
Coming and going in the post-storm dusk
The faux-January cold
 Sweet sweet sugar on my lips
Golden warmth in my throat
Empty testicles and tired

She stands up in front of the microphone
Drumming on her hip
Purple summer dress
Bruises on her legs
A star on her toe inside her low-top Converse shoes
Colored tape on the keyboard
She catches me watching her
Offers a smile
Lips pushing her cheeks into her blue eyes
We stay caught
Only for a moment

Dishes in a mess
But clean
Leaves blow in through the open door
The grass is still too wet to walk on
Blue sky distillation
Traffic in the stove’s reflection
The brownies slowly disappearing
She holds me inside of her
She’s always texting
When I wake up in her hair.


Wednesday, December 19, 2012

The Poet's Beat

I once won a slam poetry contest with this little piece...

Profound scenes,
of multiple handsome man-children,
with their cocks hanging below their knees,
parade before me,
in the infinite space of my mind,
traipsing through gardens of pansies,
swinging by their members through tall cedar trees,
handling those flesh socks with their steely knuckles
     in any way they please,
gathering coconuts and pineapples and slender stiff bananas
     for the feast,
the main course featuring the remains of the island beast,
released last year to grow fat in the interval,
during the time of peace,
a period fit only for thumb twiddling,
and games with grease,
our desires decreased over time,
lost in the breeze,
fed fresh to us from the sea,
pleading from a conch shell to be set free,
this is my madness, you see,
as deep as infinity,
and as dark as I care for it to be,
no matter if its meaning disappears
     like a flock of geese in the winter,
this is my period piece,
the news flash during my press release,
some nursery rhyme that has something
     to do with some golden fleece,
too sweet,
hope you agree,
my fingers speak faster than my heart or my mouth or my feet,
perverted, a little,
I’m sure I’ll catch heat,
but if nothing else I’m a slave to the scene,
and nobody wins the race by driving in the backseat,
I’m nothing if not true to my words,
to the poet’s beat.


Saturday, December 8, 2012

Christmas Party Scuffle

The Christmas season is upon us all...

Soup dip scalp and pride for days Pride oozing out of a thick cream sauce oozing out of hair
Fingers forcing finger-foods into her mouth
Cilantro salsa seasoning his eye balls
Skinny jeans
Skinny wrists
The wood deck eager to catch it all
Edible party favors like rain splashing from the heavens
From the rafters
From the Christmas lights strung in high spirits
Tail-bones and slick shoes
Bruised bodies
Bruised pride
Reach for what you can and make it hurt for what it’s worth
Cameras seek to dispel red rage with white lightning flashes
Illuminating cocktail covered faces determined to be detrimental
But there is no room for shame
No time for regret
Bear hugs and cat scratch claws
Beer bottles for clubs
Climbing from the cold ice water pond wheelbarrow of beverages
No truce
No surrender
No handshake covered in mutilated appetizers
The meaning of mistletoe a forsaken muse
A trail of smashed pre-party snacks and spilled drinks
From the decorative table
Over the treated wood planks
Down the stairs
To the yard
Guests frozen in disbelief
Innocent bystanders fuming over clothes covered in flung food
No one else existed
Only the fight mattered
Neither the stars
Or the fire
Or their gracious host delightful and unaware of the melee on her doorstep
Until the two combatants stood before one another
Disheveled clothes disgusting
Potluck repast paste in every orifice
Brains scrambled in madness
Cooling their wounds with ice cubes used to cool booze
Cooling tempers
Saturday in December
On the same deck where minutes before Santa had read us all a heartwarming tale of Cajun good cheer.


Saturday, December 1, 2012

The Red Planet

Cynical thoughts on the future of my species...

Pray for me, He told her,
Holding her pale hands against his lips, Outside the broken stained glass windows were stained
rocks red with the blood of ten thousand times ten, Red ran from smoking holes in suits of armor lifting sour pistol smoke up towards the red sun, Dying cries of warrior boys calling screaming for far-away mothers they would never see again,
Trying to stuff their guts back into the cavernous spaces of their spilling stomachs,
Their hands stained the color of bile - orange, yellow, red, In a canyon so far from home so many came to die, Some swore unquestioned allegiance to the Black King and followed him across the stars to fall in droves like
the waves that once broke over that red sand, Some gave their oath to the Red King and with calls to arms raised their banner high over Olympus Mons where
man first trespassed upon their soil by the ignorant ramblings of blind robots, Where so many million years before clear water once ran through rivulets of the arroyos the red water of life now
revisited those meandering tracks, In thick trickles it abandoned the dying bodies of all manner of creatures alike,
In death mankind found in himself a close kin to that race of thin-fingered astral pilgrims, Soldiers from both fronts slept one last sleep and gave up their spirits to wander the infinite cosmos, Still, there was blood yet shed, In the skies above more pale-faced legionnaires would soon descend, Like insect parasites they disgorged from their hulking warships hungry to replicate, Hungry to infect with the diseases of famine and decay, They arrived once a strange new friend, Now they became a pest, When the landing pads of their bollard copper beasts gluttonous with men touched the red killing sands they would meet yet again, For in the caves below cities were burning, In the caves the war trumpet echoed, In the caves the hearts of the people ran red with revenge, In the caves they marched, Past the stone idols and the broken sailing vessels that took them from star to star, Past the bodies of dead grey children whose carbon they would recycle into oxygen, Past the empty citadels where man once stood to preach a false peace, Past the artificial lights and the war chests and the caged beasts, They rallied to the last red soldier, Tall green-skinned space men who mapped the heavens long before mankind had left his crib, Helmets of heavy caliginous eyes, Hollow bones, Long limbs of tight muscles and fleet of foot, To reclaim their home, Take back their planet stolen, She pulled her hands away from his, Fingered the plastic black cross that hung above her pale breasts, Her black cloak fell around her, The hooded cowl framed her small oval face, Powdered cheeks and thin lips, Black moist eyes, His battle axe lay propped against a carving of their Christ, The church lay in ruins, A dim and distant sun splashed multi-colored scenes of religious ecstasy on the splintered pews, The statue burned black from a fire recently subdued, The air stank, He did not move, She reached out to touch his head where the black helmet pushed into his temples and left deep marks there in his skin, His hair a pelt of black mane mangled by sweat and the dirt of a thousand nights, His knees bent and the memory of that metallic armor on the stone when he fell there before her still resounding in her skull, His black cape like folded wings across his back displaying in vivid spectacle the pennon of the people he fought for, The black war eagle holding in its talons the spear and the crown, His skin was warm, His blood beat against her fingertips through the thin veil of his flesh, He watched her face as she traced the line of his jaw with her other hand, Slender hand, Brittle and translucent, A thing of fine glass against the coarse black beard that sat shallow on his cheeks, In the distance a thunder fell in a land where clouds were faint, The drums of a coming nation, The ground moved and the church walls groaned, The Black King never left her eyes, Death marched in the red canyon towards them, What is it that you want, She asked, His answer was quiet but fierce, For there was time yet left for madness, As he stood, He said, I want everything. 11.2012