. 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, March 18, 2014

Birth Pains

Thirty-four year ago,
as I slipped like lost soap out of my mother’s asshole
and onto that cold metal hospital pan,
somewhere far away,
a rumble started at the base of a mountain,
I have only to search out the time I was born to know the date,
3:14 PM central standard time,
baked in the oven to perfection and delivered fresh
through the cock cave,

I remember my mother  screaming at the sight of my
little plastic turtle penis
covered in her own blood,
the doctors elbowing each other for front row tickets, breathing the
vapid odors of their own cigarettes and coffees into their green masks and
back down their throats,
In that same moment,
as I puked my first lungful of carbon dioxide into the earth’s atmosphere,
a commercial airliner fell from the skies over Poland,
and fourteen members of the American Boxing team fell with it,
to their deaths,
It is this exchange; their lives for mine,
that allowed me to come into existence,
I am worth the spirit of fourteen powerful fighting men,
eye for an eye,
life for a life,

That plane exploded into a million tiny pieces o’er the white snow,
I was strapped into my first restrictive diaper,
and the monster truck, Bigfoot, landed on top of ten
aged station wagons crushing them like soda cans,

the placenta my mother and I shared with each other was drying in a
biohazard trash can somewhere
and my GOTdamn belly button was as black as coal shit, as black
as the void of space on the back side of Jupiter,
as black as my first sin I had yet to commit,

cigar smoke in the hallway,
fluorescent lights in my dilated pupils and a
mother fucking blue skull cap thrown
over my dome like I was some kind of hipster in a glass enclosed manger,
so it went,
so it goes,

65 days later Mt Saint Helens blew her top and the
world was formally welcomed of my arrival.



Thursday, February 20, 2014

Louisiana Summer Pining

I miss the box fan blowing hot air onto hot,
Cigarette smoke on my father’s lips and a sweaty
beer between his Levi’s
and the neighborhood
in a warm haze passing by the window –
the same houses and trees in a loop
like in an old Looney Tunes cartoon,
Dad waving to everybody so that the whole town
seemed like his friend to me,
An oversized bronze eagle on his belt buckle,
A Harley under a tarp in the workshop at home,
Flies on the dog’s food bowl,
Distance playing tricks on our eyes so that the sugar cane looked like
an ocean but one filled with coyote tracks
and pesticides
and king snakes
and sharp green leaves that left thin paper cuts on my arms,
Grandma beads along my neck,
When was Grandma ever so dirty?
Uncle Mo’s mustang with the hood always up,
Shop rags always hanging over the fenders like a tired
dog’s tongue,
Miller Lite cans in the trash,
Bare breasts on the girls on the calendar sitting on motorcycles
in high heels teaching me early on that long legs
and big perfect tits were what I should
set my sights on,
Heat like a heavy hand,
Old women with paper fans in the church pews,
My friends in black and white altar boy robes refusing to look my way
because their own fathers were paying more attention
to them than to the frivolous message
about kindness or forgiveness
or being fruitful
or filling the wicker baskets
or speaking to long dead apostles as if they gave a damn
or some such shit,
Donuts after service,
The ice-cold turd-brown waters of the Mississippi River,
Rope swings and navigation towers,
The undertow always threatening to pull somebody out into those
hellish currents,
Tankers with European names churning white water
to push their payload upriver to Baton Rouge
and no further
since clever Huey P. Long built the bridge too low
for them to pass under,
Foggy mornings
and sunshine all day long,
The hot breath of God Almighty,
Always breathing,
Dusk at 9:30pm,
Dawn when the fried eggs were ready,
Flaky biscuits,
Buttermilk pancakes,
And always chocolate milk,
Dad should have kept a dairy cow instead of a motorcycle.



Saturday, January 25, 2014

British Isles Islander Life

These were my daily journal entries from a trip to the UK a few years ago copied down exactly as I wrote them then...

Day 1
Rations Good. Full.
“Lady” seems in good spirits.
Will come for me tonight.
Engines at full power –
40 percent to shields.
My contact guesses at correct
terminal –
Earns points towards evaluation.
British voices on radio.
Day 1.1
The police use old-timey style cameras
to capture
belligerent drivers.
Day 1.2
Dick Piercing Park is very near
the Israeli gunmen.
So too is the police van
full of foot patrol cops.
Day 1.3
Spotted Mad Hatter Hotel
next to
Mad Hatter billboard
Day 1.4
Wicked has been accomplished.
We missed a chance to have a
high-powered and vastly
opinionated discussion
on the merits and weaknesses of the
epic witch hunt.
Slight rain –
Sleepy eyes.
The rabbits watch ever onward from the
Rations low.

Day 2
The young lady has arrived.
Her rations are full and good.
Javier is off to fulfill duties for
Medical emergency.
55 years old.
Heart palpitations. Grey skin.
Husband inattentive.
Day 2.2
Italian downstairs where we did not
Tails of Terp and Tammy
and Carrie.
Golden showers.
Tell me things you would blow.
Tell me what things you would blow.
Rations low.

Day 3
Forty dead.
No one injured.
Rations in high supply.
Spirits soaring.
Sardines in the night.
Fried eggs on the floor.

Day 4
Caught the last train of the month.
Saw the purse
in the bathroom.
No hot fudge Sundae.
No Dr. Pepper.
Someone pranked the dean again.
No blood.
No bodies.
We hit nothing.

Day 5
Scotland looms like a pale Negress
on the cold horizon;
her icy rivers are melting
our young American
The cabby talks of whiskey
and water
and there is still no sun.
Mom is warm and welcoming as always.
Day 5.1
The ol’ hotel switch-er-roo.
Four men enter.
Two leave.
One gets another hotel somewhere
The castle looks on
like a rocky brown turd perched halfway
between heaven and earth.
Rations in good supply.
Fuel low.
Tammy in full breaux-charm mood.
Day 5.2
Chilean pepper police standing in a line
getting peppered.
Strawberry beer in everyone’s mouth,
but the gulp is
It’s always

Day 6
We forge on.
The icy Baltic Sea has baptized us
and we are young men again –
as young as Anthony was
when Master Javier hit him
in the head
with that board.
Keep in mind he didn’t start crying
until he saw the actual Water of Life
on his forehead.
There were no cell phones then.
Our feet were frozen
but are normal again.
Holly’s ass is cold
when she drinks.

Day 7
Christmas lights.
Wrapping presents.
Fighting with the bitch
Rations high.
Spirits low.
Scrambled eggs and caballeros
on a 2,000 acre ranch in Washington.
Booja Booja
(B-o-o-j-a, b-o-o-j-a).
A young man balances a carton of milk
on his sister’s head.
She relents.
The castle awaits.
Day 7.1
Butter and cheese
and no water
from the well in the castle.
Rivulet was finally perfected on the candle,
causing a cum-splash of wax
to pour forth.
Day 7.2
I danced willy-nilly past the airport guards
and still they looked away.
I am the security gate charmer.
I am the airport aerialist.
I am the cutest little curious little rock and socks ballet beauty.
I am the lord of the
Day 7.2
Rations at all-time low.
Spirits at medium rare.
Mom sleeps somewhere tonight
over the British countryside,
but soon to be sad
when she arrives safely to find she’s sleeping
on the ground.

Day 8
Rations depleted.
Have begun to eat the tightly bound meat
within my various friends’ buttocks.
Miami roasts like a stuffed pig
cooking under the trapped heat of an overturned aluminum boat.
These are my first steps on American soil
this year.
May they be fruitful
and merciful.

Dec 2010 / Jan 2011

Wednesday, January 22, 2014


Little international wanderer,
Overseeing architecture all around the world,
We found the Atlantic Ocean after walking barefoot
   through Savannah grass,
And you told me that you loved me when you were drunk,

Rooftop parties in the New York city clouds,
Someone’s couch to crash on,
I found you on the dance floor and
   you invited my dog to share your backyard
wearing my sunglasses in the dark.



Monday, January 20, 2014


Everybody gets high
in the mountains.
In the mountains
everybody's high.
Sea level sours your soul.
Even the cracks in the valleys
rise higher than thee,
Then the night
whom brings you face to face
with the stars,
your companions while you sleep--
a billion dreams.
...and where's the street light?
the stop light?
the porch light?
--counterfeit drugs
that are death to the soul on the summit.
Stagnant air down there
that's not fit for swimming,
lo, the breeze in the mountain pass
that flows streamlike
tossing trout covered leaves
between nestled rocks,
solid rocks,
old rocks--
flows high and wild,
untamed air exploding in your lungs,
drowning your ability to ever say goodbye,
to ever leave--
a return to flat reality,
where dogs are chained
and bikes are too.
You could walk forever,
for eternity there,
and get no closer to eternal heaven--
to the heavens,
scratched by tips of granite
where wildflowers dance
in multicolored dances of hallucination
above the treeline,
tripping in a landscape of grey
or green
or purple.
Can you feel the sun,
heaped there on your naked shoulder,
wrapped in the wind,
blown in fresh from the peaks,
into your soul,
your veins,
leaving track marks on your mind,
leaving sea level
and this
and that
so very far behind.
As you rise upward
one meadow to the next,
your laced boots,
long now addicted to the climbing trail,
have discovered nothing new in time--
Everybody gets high
in the mountains.
In the mountains
everybody's high.



Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Light and the Dark

We are made of both light
and of dark
In various balances
But in equal measures both
So do not call me a gentleman
Without calling me a
Do not say his hands are dirty
Because mine are dirty
Your tits fit comfortably in my mouth today
But tomorrow I spew them out
This the man who said he loved you
The man who stands to loathe you
He’ll pull your hair to
bend you to his manner
He’ll shrug his shoulders and say a thousand things
You live in a cabin in the darkness of my mind
A white light that shines hot in my memory
You swim in your slender naked frame through
and pleasure
The Titans who sculpted you out of sticks
And wrapped your heart in mud
Gave to you Adonis
To wrestle in the garden for his life or for yours
Of light
And of dark.