. 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

Thursday, September 29, 2016

My Mother's Principles



these are my mother's principles:
to hunt or be hunted,
in the thick dell or snowstorm swell,
to the summit,
never find your knife blunted,
be husband to your tools of survival,
confront all revivals with skepticism
until in a pool of your own blood
you are swept up in rapture
like the world beneath Noah's flood,
capture those nymphs of curiosity,
fuck them with ferocity
until in a moment of clarity
all fools spouting foolish lies
are revealed as monstrosities,
never say goodbye,
scout from on high,
the biggest bone is beneath the thigh,
wound a man there
if you decide he shouldn't die,
to the sky,
never stop trying,
never stop crying when you're told
it's the day to be dry-eyed,
always burgers with fries,
ride whatever wave passes you by
despite its size
or its might
and ever and always with delight,
like the inherent happiness of a child and kite,
gripe only in the shadows,
snipe only from the rooftops,
find proof where truth stops,
get the job,
do the job well,
my son,
my egg,
your father's brave sperm cell,
crouch low
low in the dell,
see the tiger as he passes
flashes
wherein the devil dwelt
black for the souls that fall
orange for the flames of Hell.

2016

ta

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Rainy Afternoon


She rains off-note piano chords
onto the dark grey concrete outside,
millions of dancing circles
like winking eyes
over the distorted mirrored image of an ashen and invisible sky,
my open door let’s in sodden mosquitoes
and a triangle of muted afternoon light,
my pale skin burns
with the cold cream fires of disillusionment,
and with a sadness that washes in with the rain -
of love’s indecision,
of your lips moving making sounds purring
to be loved as you deserve,

She pours over us the salty tears of a lost and lonely god
respite from his throne and that golden light,
a morning feeling lasts the day,
your clothes like dead animals
scattered in the shadows
in the squares of window light,
in the folds of my silent heart,
in the words it just can’t speak right now,
in the coming morning when we don’t have to feel this way,

what I’d give for a free moment,
for just a moment with you,
where there are no rules,
and no one else,
and all the lies vanish or become stars for another night sky,
and we are there in the love that was supposed to be,

She sends her soul
to be consumed by fire and earth,
all is wrecked,

so let me drown
in the weeping darkness,
in the cold clouds,
and leave me alone.

2016

ta

Monday, September 19, 2016

The Thrush



It was the devil who led me into the shadows
to find the red sparrow hidden in the folds of your flesh,
I followed the slick trails
and slipped when it was wet,
hunting for this lost bird's nest,
my tongue over bite marks,
bite marks over your heart,
and your heart over this bondage between us -
this mess,
your sweat reflecting back false images of a dark bird,
but when I thrust,
thrush,
I miss,

Still, I must confess,
the minute I met you
I made it my mission
to find my way beneath your dress,

But what happened next
was left...
to mystery,
to fate,
to destiny...

and all the rest.

06/2016

-ta-

Friday, September 16, 2016

She Asks Much


Into this heat I convey my soul
while rattle throat'd locusts sing a lament for the lost sun
before the night arrives
the land must pass through a window of grey
when wizards and witches
hang from the black shadows in the branches of old oak trees
the heat rising from everything
in an invisible chorus like the prayers of long dead saints

And into the hungry arms of blood suckers I commit my pale flesh
tiny winged whalemen harpooning the great white whale
how bravely do they fight and fly
how heavy is their craving
how quickly they die
join your brothers, fierce aviator,
rest in quiet peaceful rivers of blood
and
know hunger no more

May the sweat at my temples
hide the tears on my cheeks
this land asks much
she commands my loyalty
but inspires my love

still

still

the price is high
and in between fits of laughter
I weep
hiding my face where she cannot see
swimming through the humid night
where everything tastes like salt
and everything seems to be crying.

9/2016
-ta