is it baseball?
the game in the mirror,
charged with the fear or the awe?
dare we do the inevitable,
with chance at our side,
in one single moment?
what is manifested
in this, the season after the win?
what reaches the stands?
what handles the spin?
what happens in this, our day,
these times?
what qualities manage to reign sublime
in the hocus focus of the relevant?
it is baseball,
and they sailed through the season,
saying ‘bring on the bronx’.
this is baseball.
and i heard of a friend, and a friend of a friend, getting out of rehab, going in.
and i feel those days interminable, for these, our friends. i feel those days, upon moments, upon hours of anhedonic non-ness, living moments of hell, feeling less than worthless, more than dead.
good friends, i wish you strength, and luck. please know you are perfect, it is only the mirror that has cracked.
one day at a time, good friends, for one is more than enough.
low grey day
alone with intent
all words fall short
with a sharp din
of inexactitude.
poetdog, 9/30/03
well, i don’t know much, but i was driving through the pines, and lucky, for there was a guy worse off than me on the road, but he turned on moby dick, and then i was alone.
and what have i been thinking, as i sit on the deck all day, asked the man whose name might have been simian, and what did i answer before the yellow butterflies came around? those butterflies, they must have felt the light, they must live partly part light. and partly part thistle.
so the man who might be simian, he told me to read the very last of tolstoy, as i sat on the deck, and probably i will. and he told me to watch for the history, the history of the land, and i will.
and so many people, all the summer long, all the summer, all the summer, but now it is gone, and now, here, is the fall. it is a fall with a twist, a fall with a wistful twinge of warm dusk air full of grasshoppers and bats.
and what have i been thinking?
well, it doesn’t matter.
