. 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 16, 2013

Day Time Talk

Phil held the steady gaze he was known for,
his instruments choppy in the darkness under his eyebrows,
his upper lip twitching in anticipation
but its movements covered by the broom of his thick mustache.

Jimmy held the gates as long as he could,
and in a ceremony his effort would be commended,
his own eyes were shifty and betrayed him,
despite his resolve a single tear ran for freedom down his cheek.

The doctor bellowed for what he called justice
to an audience that was hungry to see blood spilled.
The doctor had caressed reality
but danced his way into a knot no one could untie.

They loved him for it,
following him like the Piper
because he looked them in the eyes and told them what to think,
that they should trust him without knowing him
and hide in the grey patches of hair above his ears.

Where are we? thought Jimmy's mind
in a world that breathed disaster from a con man's lungs.
He could not stop the rebellious tear,
he protested but his eyes were ready to give up,
his idea of what makes sense
was rewritten on a band wagon driven hard by
a mad scientist in a sharp shouldered suit
carrying an audience with a single ignorant mind.

Jimmy became a new man
worse than the man the doctor accused him of being.
Jimmy stopped believing
because Phil was heavy set, tailored, commanding,
and because the audience cheered for him,
not for Jimmy.


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