. 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

Thursday, June 6, 2013

Moon-Man and I

Moon-man and I
Smoking year old cigarettes
Talking out of the side of our mouths
To talk like those old cowboys in the movies
Blood as cold and black as the horses they got away on
His helmet inky with the gas of his world
A reflection of my own eyes where his should be

This the moon-man and I
We talk politics like my parents
Like the old white men who got shot in marble halls
     and in marble hearts
I tell the story of my people
The Christ
And the bastards
The Kennedys
The Thieves
The Trolls
And the terps
The bones
The rocks
And the grey-eyed girl who took my virginity
     on the floor in that apartment bathroom

He tells the tale of a bride
Who In short whispers wakes him up in the red morning
Who reminds him always of how she is lost in his love
Who knows he doesn’t like roses
But she can’t help it
Who stops his bones from shaking
Who is the face he see’s in the night
In the stars
In his soul
In his dreams
Whose smile he knows the shape of despite the million miles
     and the nothing that is endless between

The moon-man and I
Discover for ourselves
That damned conclusion that can only come from terrible lies
And vow together to live in honesty
Discard the cloak of shame we have so long shrouded
     o'er our bent backs
Through spirited debate
Through the winds of exchange
Through the cliffs and chasms in the space between our words
Each sentence a labyrinth where roams for us both - the minotaur
The maze of our misunderstanding
Bends where it shouldn’t and becomes a straight path

My friend, the moon-man, and I
Slaves to the ways of our fathers
Calloused hands but also calloused minds
We the two last standing among a field of fallen combatants
     bleeding both from bodies red and green
Under his ribs a knife
Under my ribs
A knife too

When the worlds have fallen
And there is no history left to record
When each candle in every star has consumed its wick and gone dark
The gods like children grown tired of a game of marbles
     turn their back to search out other attractions
One long orgasmic climax and crash
When even darkness is a memory
When love is sin
When there is no one left to talk to
Remember us
The moon-man and I
Remember us here

Moon-man and I
I cut him down
Holding him as he fell
As he would have held me
And then I died beside him.


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