. 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, October 25, 2016

Had We Gone for a Drive

You watch me in her dining
room turned cocktail server
serve yourself lounge.
Soft as baby blue walls wallpaper peeling.
Pulling the cork from a green
glass of cheap wine the eager
gift of one of the guests.

Feel your eyes on me.
Like your long fingers tracing the
scars on my shoulders where
the dark hairs lie down with freckles and
thin bones.
The smoke from your lips snaking its
way across the kitchen.
Around the pot-roast and pecan pie and
overburdened conversations torn
apart by strange hands.

World of slow motion.
World of white knuckles.
These pale faces piss me off and I
could smash each one of them because
the truth is I love you.
I love you in floods of shame.
In fire.
It is the loudest secret I have
ever had to keep.

Who was it that we were in Barcelona
on those warm nights when the
face of our love burned bright hot like the moon?
I told you to stay awake.
I would be home in a while.
You stayed still but I became lost.

You stand wrapped in your questions spinning
in a very quiet way by the sink and the
dishes covered in eaten cake.
I pour my wine and listen to a
faraway Spanish guitar.
A girl in white wearing red shoes.
I'll be home in a little while.

Your sad delicate smile on the beach catching
a few notes while the rest of them fell into the sea and
were scattered across the world.
You would have loved the stars tonight.
But this stranger's bed feels so cold, lover,
without that sad smile
sleeping soundly on my chest.
We'll never know, will we?
We'll never know if all of this would have
changed had we taken that drive that night.
I'm sorry, my love.
I'm sorry for madness and dissension.
And the cruelty of the world.



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