. 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

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.


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