. 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

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

A Blue Moon Interlude

His was the touch of satin,
soft starling’s wings fluttering on my shoulder,
that brash rogue’s face suddenly towering over me,
each gentle eye a window to the
       penthouse suite of his soul,
an obelisk of light against a low sky
       sprinkling mist and ruddy orange,
Chicago’s son,
the back porch tickler.

He caught me immersed in my texts,
salacious conversations to someone far away,
inconsequential texts,
absorbing and private nonetheless,
purposefully alone at the garden table
       distanced from crowds of drinkers,
projecting a No Vacancy sign in the ether
       above my head.

Still the starling fell from air to dance
       along my bent shoulder,
and there he was,
asking inopportune questions I could hardly hear,
holding his beer in the space between us,
always the glowing clouds above him,
salt and pepper rain drops in my eyes,
his droning meaningless banter,
such tragic dialogue lost on whatever intentions
       he accosted me with.

The ongoing incoming texts began to equal to
       the amount of my building frustration,
this friendly banality,
these pointless words,
o’ dragon from the dark depths of back yard azaleas,
your purpose and significance are together in question,
starling’s warble,
I caught myself thinking that life would get better
       when he returned to Chicago,
that one and only fact about him that I remember now.


No comments:

Post a Comment