. 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, December 31, 2013

Chat With a Stranger



You:
     stranger
     pale-faced man of the evening
     i like your style and your silent stare
     don’t ever hide that shit from the light
     ya dig?

Stranger:
     i do look pretty pale in this lighting

You:
     aint that the god’s honest truth
     but aint nothing wrong with that among this world

Stranger:
     my skin is so smooth it reflects the white light well

You:
     don’t let them tell you otherwise
     don’t let them take from you the one ounce of
          courage you have left

Stranger:
     lol

You:
     that is the sound of anguish and agony, rollie pollie
     the sound of your agony crushes my spirit
     i am at a loss to feel hope
     i am wandering beyond MY own courage now
     in territory unfamiliar
     among faces i do not recognize
     scream again, pale friend
     scream those words

Stranger:
     are you writing a poem?

You:
     the night magic
     that’s what this is
     that’s what i call what you do
     the teacher, the pale rider
     the couch surfer
     may i pose a question?
     do you own those walls behind you?
     come alive, man!

Stranger:
     nope

You:
     do you rent them perchance?

Stranger:
     I do

You:
     and the trash receptacle
     do you have ownership over it?
     look alive, petersmith!
     the one against the wall behind your shaggy gruff
     who among you owns it?

Stranger:
     it belongs to the city

You:
     look alive, pandle eyes!
     it’s time for you to come to the aid of your country
     to step for once from the burning ash of your life and
          become a new seed

Stranger:
     you are thinking too big, man

You:
     step with me, king fish
     take hold of the truth of the gold in your heart

Stranger:
     start small and grow

You:
     follow me to the pallid regions of denial
     let’s let slip the notion of our parents

Stranger:
     is it really pretending?

You:
     we are shifting in the womb of infinity
     you and i
     the brothers pale, they called us
     in the reign of the Third King of these lands do we sleep
     whose women we take as wives and whose children
          they pour forth from their inflated bellies

Stranger:
     i think saying we are not connected is pretending

You:
     i’ve moved on
     look alive, smuggler
     it’s not time for sleep
     those days are gone
     like the chords that connect us

Stranger:
     lol it’s about time for me
     sleep is vital

You:
     no
     the cords are gone
     the chords silent
     we are not connected
     no
     we never
     were

Stranger:
     we are all the same

You:
     you are a fool and a braggart
     now you must suffer this injustice
     or move along and make some other act of contrition
     someplace else
     where gods and men sup from the blood of the land
     like cook's they meld our minds to do their bidding
     and you and i

Stranger:
     only men think they are gods

You:
     well we were never connected
     you and i and the gods
     we ARE different!
     and always will be

Stranger:
     what is different?

You:
     separated by time and by death
     the pale rider and the jean king

Stranger:
     these are all made-up words

You:
     one from the badlands and one up to no good
     you see the disconnect, gene handler
     we don’t even recognize each other anymore

Stranger:
     time and death
     this is what we know
     but it is only a human concept

You:
     two brothers cut from their mother’s stomach bile
     puked into the life
     the brothers pale and slinger
     the handle brothers
     diligent but never suspect

Stranger:
     life has been interrupted by obsession with control

You:
     whippin’ dicks and dirges
     making the moon move from its own perch
     to touch the lips of the lady love and mellow her the fuck down
     ya dig, my pale bride?
     clumy malloon of the cityscape
     that will be your moniker from now on
     the yellow malloon always sad but never going anywhere
     the baffling stares you’ll get
     the haunted telephone calls at 3 a.m.
     the trifling days gone in a mad wind

Stranger:
     what are you on, man?

You:
     i can’t answer you with any answer other than
     life
     madness perhaps
     but nothing else
     the drug of conception is enough for me

Stranger:
     life is the only answer i accept

You:
     the mescaline of my mother’s breath
     the domain of her contagious love affair with the
          man who became my father
     you know her
     young charlie in charge
     young blanket mascot
     young pale wolf
     asleep at the wheel
     as life struggles to crash and crush you
     the headlights golden on the golfers living the mad life
          you never could
     clench tight your butt cheeks and put the gun in your mouth
     tonight aint gonna be just another saturday night, ya dig?
     you ol’ rat turd
     you pale dog honey suckling
     doing the due diligence
     keep alive, brother
     keep sharp
     keep your eyes and your wits and prick stiff
     the board that breaks will be the board of your downfall
     you with me still, stinger?
     i need your heat to keep me warm
     this train aint driving itself
     GOTdamnit, soldia’
     blow some smoke and let’s chase this trail

Stranger:
     i’m trying to figure out your direction

You:
     to the darkness only, stevenson
     to the trail that brings me to my own tears
     the southern boy at the bell stops whistling the slow sad
          tune of my existence
     he lives here with me
     in the darkness
     whereto we must ALL go

Stranger:
      so are you trying to convince me to go to the darkness??

You:
     you know this, young farcical
     i want nothing to do with this said darkness, male lion
     i want only to be reprieved
     to say the struggle is not in vain
     you little sailor!
     you have never felt so alive, have you?!
     you pirate of the purple hearts of life

Stranger:
     i have not

You:
     when you speak, i am cursed
     i hope you understand your power, little midriff
     you’ve awakened a sleeping devil
     he sits heavy on my fingers now
     giving weight to what once was airy and free

Stranger:
     how did i do that?

You:
     the curse inside of you of course
     of course there is a curse
     you knew this but did not divulge
     you like a creeping cat crept past my downed guard
          and into the backdoor of my soul
     you are a pest
     a feline pest
     pale as the ether
     the blanket bastard
     the blue blanket bandit
     walker of the filth
     child progeny
     i loved you once
     a love now gone
     you gun slinger

Stranger:
     what are you trying?

You:
     we met in the night
     always remember

Stranger:
     are you trying to get into my subconscious mind?

You:
     always
     you
     will
     always
     be
     the
     pale rider

2013

.

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Cloudless Dreams



These cloudless dreams
are what?
Fixin’ to pour hot thunder down o’er Ol’ Keller’s place
up in the hills,
Full a’mirrors n’shit, bout err’time you turn ‘round
somebuddy’s waitin’ with a hatchet,
Bettin’ all else they can fix it,
And false reflections strip away all that’s er’been good,
The ideal man is me,
Cream trimmins on her red drapes,
That bush burnin’ round her well talkin’ radio speak
and singin’ some pin drop lovely swells,
Skin folds and flesh,
Meat folds and turns that pretty lil’ head,
She dun meant to be mean,
Cougar’ll growl ya right up that there tree,
Crown’a butter in the muddy sky,
Tie a rope round her insides and lower er’on
down underneath the ground,
Where she’ll sweat,
Sleep as sound as any ol’ thang,
Let’s whisper instead of give up the ghost,
Daddy heavy hoofin’ in them six penny work boots
upstairs his bear’s claw sharp as sharp,
Gonna milk me tonight,
Feed my blood to the porkers downtown,
Watch ‘em, o’God, roll snake eyes and wear my
clothes home to Uncle Hung Me Nots,
Give me up to the Jews to cut,
No way that ol’ man gon work me like a bitch
this time ‘round no way,
Not ta’night,
No sir.

12.10.2013

.

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

I Called Her Dainty and She Never Forgave Me



Her clothes smelled like Louisiana,
Like her bed in that shabby ghetto apartment,
The intertwined spices of her world:
cat litter, shampoo and
     the previous night’s just-add-water
          mix of instant mashed potatoes,
The hour late and the airport an abandoned shell of bright colors,
An empty cavern of modern architecture and fluorescent lights,
Red-eyed passengers wandered aimlessly in a haze of jet lag,
     of solitude,

She was somewhere in the stars,
     lost,
A plastic bottle of cheap vodka between her lips,
Ruddy in the reflection of the business class window,
Until in my sweaty hand my cell phone buzzed,
     suddenly,
And I knew that,
For at least a little while,
Her feet were once again on the ground,

We drove through the darkness towards the city –
A densely glowing constellation sprawled at the base of invisible 
     mountains,
A wall of negative space marked where the stars did not sparkle,
Joking,
Laughing,
Her breath muddy with alcohol and lust,
Intoxicating to my senses,
My own skin warm,
Waiting eagerly for the moment when we would touch,
When she would share the taste of that jet fuel vodka
     in the mixture of her saliva with mine,

The open road of my wonderfully lonely boyhood behind me,
The teasing in those desperate months of longing
     now gone,
She was in my space,
My Denver nest thawing in the shadow of the Continental Divide,
The ear of her soul as open as it ever was,
Listening,
Yet my confession never came,
The shape of my heart remained unrevealed,
Lost thoughts,
Foreign words to my tongue,
     buried under the weight of fear,
My feelings denied,
Her heart forbidden to enter,
My lips with permission to kiss her hello,
Only,
To kiss her goodbye,
And to never speak of how badly I missed her,
That all important meaning of her presence in my life,
The joy in her smile,
Her laugh,
A heavy and unknown consequence,
With the ability to alter our course,
Those few hidden words,
to her,
to me,
     and then she was gone,
A turbine engine in full throttle over the Kansas plains,
A vapid smoke trail and a memory,
So that even five years later I find myself
     still struggling to admit the truth of those days.

11.17.09

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Monday, December 2, 2013

Romance Novel Suicide



Josephine Virginia Renalt leaps from the edge
in a tattered blouse with her shoulder bare.
Duke Heinrich Lamar falls behind her
his chest could be pillowcases of concrete and
golden bronze.
Josephine’s hair dark and long and curling like an
octopus waving goodbye.
Duke Heinrich’s pink lips are the
plump, moist lures
of the angler fish guardians of his delightful tongue.
They are both caught in the wind and swept away in different directions.
Passions
and love
and sweat
lost typeface to fall like rain peppering the neighborhood
with the litter of raunchy sex and candle-light grammar.
Each page torn from its spine
and spilled
into the night air
into the yellow street light crop circles.
The cell phone tower winking a seeing eye red.
Sleeping bulldozers in the wreckage below
mangled rebar and doors that open into
emptiness.
Underwear on the helicopter pad.
Footprints in the wrecking ball dust.
An empty bourbon bottle catches photons that have travelled
from faraway stars.
Catches them and doesn’t care.
The journey of a single particle of light leaving its
host
on the other side of the ever-expanding universe.
Through the cold distance of space.
Past the worlds of our story books and the stories beyond our imaginations.
Past silver clouds racing against a pregnant moon.
Past your cold white chest rising and falling
and breathing.
To end in the thick glass of an empty
Kentucky bourbon bottle.
It’s snowing a romance novel.
And nobody cares that the stars are alive in the bourbon.

10.18.2013

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