. 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, November 13, 2013

The Things We Pass Down

I carry my father’s curse,
His guns,
Two dead dollops of heavy wood and black iron smooth,
A noose around my waist – my neck,
Cracked leather oiled to hide its age –
The obscure years of his twisted vigil,
Fleeing that gloomy night when his own father’s birthright
     became his,
Now mine,
The disfigured ghosts of the men who bore my blood,
Dark long snake’s moustache
     and receding hairline,
Sunken cheeks and the yellow teeth of a devil’s smile,
So far removed from my own cluttered maw that
     the mirror reveals two souls –
The lost children of my disenfranchised consciousness,
Aloof on the open flats of life,
The lonely desert
     and absence of any invisible lines to lead me home,
My spirit torn in two,
I am my father’s duel sons,
Apt to use these pistols to destroy us both.


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