. 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, September 3, 2013

Almost Home

Lay her down in the river’s weeds
And let the warm water carry her home
Close your eyes
Let not the unbound tears escape
Her home, you see, is around the bend
And we must forge on upstream
You and I

Leopard’s eyes and Cajun lips
Your song is spread with the high fiddle
A dissolve in my throat
That proud moon wanking in the night sky
I pin a kiss to your lapel but find
     only skin beneath my lips
She drifts away from our fingers
A slow torn apart
Young and as beautiful as the stars
Home in a very short time
Her mane spread like discarded oil on
     the mirror’s surface
That shimmering flesh

We ate
Tore her to the pieces that mattered
The broken heart and mashed
     potato plate lunch on Saturdays
Bleed the black blood
Bleed the red blood
And leave me alone
My dry tongue sticking to the
     cigarette through which my words pass
Tobacco stains under your eyes
She swims with otters and ghosts tonight
With her eyes closed
And Neptune pointing the way

When you find yourself spinning
     dizzy mistakes and choices you could not smother
Warm summer breeze of her voice in
     the flesh and wheat
Those lonely secrets you cannot tell
Remember that snake the river
And know she is almost home


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