. 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

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

My Mother's Gift

Pig pork tabled on my tongue like
the nesting swallows in the corner
of my porch,
Dad's porch built with electric saws and
the beer-stained curses of the mouth of the man that pushed me
from the tip of his dick deep
into my mother's guts twenty-nine years ago this April,
Straining now with that same maw to
grind pork fat into digestible components friendly to the ulcers
that riddle the innards of his tight-as-a-drum distended belly of pale
sparsely-haired mole-ridden flesh,
The thick coagulation of slick slime coating that porker's succulent
offerings wedding my own saliva and
sliding greedily,
into a belly that perhaps shares the same genetic code as
my elderly father but for fuck's sake best not
one day share that same shape,

He eyes the dry swallow nest vacant in the summer season
as if the swallows have some better place to spend
warmer climates than in the shade of
my porch with its peeling yellow paint and
drunken mosquitoes visiting in the cool evening,
His eyes are becoming cloudy - both in what we see when
looking into them and what he see's when he looks out,

"That bird nest," he says, "up there,
it reminds me of coming home"
The sun is splendid on his face forcing its way into
the cracks that have eaten their way
through those contours beaten both by the hands of time and
by the hands of harder men than he,

"How so?" I ask, later to repent for a question whose answer would
dig through my skull like a bobcat's claws in a rabbit's ribcage,

"Your mother would wait for me on the lounge chair by the television set,
That old blue faded piece of shit with the stains along the armpit,
You know the one,
Filthy sad springless chicken full of cockroaches and wood glue,
The one that stockpiled dog hair in its folds like we were gonna be short of it someday,"

I nodded,
told him I remembered the one,

"She would be naked," he went on to say, smiling,
at what he could clearly still see and I was only beginning to reluctantly visualize,
"Ripe as a green apple,
As white and smooth and stiff as a mannequin in the Dillard's window,
And that bird's nest up there,
It reminds me of her thick black bush,
Hiding her lovely pussy,
Between her long spread legs
waiting for me when I'd come through the door."

TA - 2013

Sunday, October 15, 2017

So That I Can Be Prepared

Have you come to wreck my marriage?!
Sarah sleeps restlessly and weeps constantly
at the back of the palace,
Allen spends his evenings painting the dull colors
of the aurora borealis,
birth daughter of Mother the Moon
and Sun the Dragon,
the sad ballad of Atlas holding the world on his shoulders
but more impressively holding in his madness,
slip the golden band from my phalanx,
if I seem out of practice it is because
the planet is out of balance,
you've a talent for destruction
as powerful as a volcanic eruption,
and our vows were always full of corruption from the beginning,

weren't they?

tell me what they'll say,
about how the good always get led astray,
so that I can be prepared for my fall from grace.

TA - 2014

Monday, October 9, 2017

She's Got What It Takes

I never said she wouldn't make mistakes,
with a sly but honest hand I fanned the deck,
she pulled the Joker,
I pulled the Ace,
I didn't have the answers to the questions I answered,
random acts cast patterns tied in knots of chain,
of lace,
she may not have what you have, lads,
but she's got what it takes.

TA - 2016

Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Fingers Turned Red

Until our fingers turned red like the wine
like the heavy blanket of starry black cresting overhead to
crash like a wolf's howl ushering in the
long night
we let go the question of right
of wrong
gay with dark drink slipping from between our lips the merriment of song
she hovered over the sand
tall and long
smiling and smelling sweetly of sadness
of the strong scent of madness; that curse washed away
not long after surviving distaster
stir the night air with the spoon of your long neck and dance for
your master
until our fingers turned red like the wine
and we died like gangsters.

TA - 2016