. 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, January 9, 2018

Lemon Party


Twelve men stand together in hip waders and rain slickers
bent over tripods with mounted cameras and remote-controlled triggers
snickering to one another as their reddening fingers snap pictures
twelve men focusing lenses on the lake bed where looms a single figure
a veritable killer with thick fur the wet color of hard liquor
they wager their very souls that this monster is not out searching for dinner
otherwise they're out of luck and he's twelve old men richer
consider the brute force of his attack and the violent manner it would be delivered
in bites he could eat eyes stomach lungs small intestines testes and liver
it would come quicker than they could abandon their gear to jive and skitter
shutters flicker as the twelve men linger like city slickers on the shallow lake mirror
their other selves shimmer when the wind blows soft breath ripples and trimmers
winter whispers in their aged ears this natural killer
the figure remains downrange and ever the giver
of life
of love
of liberty
and all with vigor.

TA

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