. 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, 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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2 comments:

  1. Take me back to the dark, conspicuous corner near the dart board..where the drug ravenous Harvard graduates sip their shame and the trashy romance novels stand elegantly on the old wooden shelves.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Only name the night and the moment.

    ReplyDelete