. 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

Monday, November 11, 2013

Untitled Road Trip Poem

Dust clouds lift in the distance,
Gray and solid,
Larger than imagination,
Now no larger than my fist.
Or is it a mountain?
Fingers and knuckles,
A ball of veins and flesh,
And bone.
It’s the days I’m counting,
And the miles,
Consumed in the small dust plumes
Stirred into tiny existence
By the heavy padded feet
Of the red elephant beneath me.
She is my home,
Her neck my balcony,
Her long under priced tusks my lawn,
Her haunch my pillow.

There is always dust in the distance,
Always something I cannot see through,
Or around,
Or even understand sometimes.
And the ending eludes me,
Frightens me more than death.
Well, perhaps that’s a lie,
Though I have my doubts.
Still it’s hazy in the cloud.
It settles so slowly
There’s a chance you’ll miss its presence all together.
Expecting to see your eyes adjust
Only to look up and see that they’ve adjusted.
The meaning:
There are no words for the meaning.
The feelings go undescribed.
The emotions are left untouched, unspoken.
Chance to die?

I’ve lost count of the sunrises,
They were all too far in the distance anyway,
Too covered in dust,
Their glory stolen by conceited mountains.
Their illusions of the future,
Their ever onward call,
Their knowledge of what’s beyond the cloud
Has always alarmed me.



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