. 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.


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