. 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, February 20, 2013

Bags of Ice

Behind the bar where the action is as hot as a summer night melting cold ice as quick as I can pour it over the beer...


Smoking wet cigarettes in the back
of a jon boat waiting on this mad rain to blow
its load across the lake
and skate off satiated to washboard  waltz with a pillow-faced
old timer in alligator boots
     and a caterpillar mustache
She pulls me aside her spit tastes like piss or
     beer her tits sweating
Tells me to run for ice
Slicker suit tuxedos scrambling through
the potted plants houseboat neighborhood like this is
the last deluge anyone will have a chance
     to drown in
Where’s that little girl?
Where’s that lonely woman’s child?
The dance floor can’t hold up under this much
     weight much longer
Mama Sue Xien smells like chicken talks like chicken
Wǒ hěn xiǎng cóng nǐ de yīnnáng xī huīchén
Close the shop for the afternoon to
pull pale ghost shrimp from the shallows in droves in the
blood-stained coveralls and broken fish
     nets of a starving family
A gallon of gasoline and a quart of oil should get us home
She leans into my ear and tells me
     to wait by the car after work
Her thick swollen lips crowded around a jade glass pipe
     packed tight with glowing buds
Mosquitoes skirting the edge of that silver smoke like wolves in
the darkness beyond the campfire thirsty for action violent
     instinct trespassers of our civility
I would curse her the she-witch arms of faded blue
tattoos but she is damn good
     with her hands
Three bags of ice and a glazed honey-bun
Hé jīngyè zài tā de liǎ
njiá

01.2013

No comments:

Post a Comment