. 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.