. 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,
greasily,
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

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