Sunday, October 07, 2012

Box Core

Way up on the third deck
the strikes and balls
are a just a flip
of your emotional coin,
and the money
is miraculous music
jangling all around
like clouds
of mango butter
as the big league batter
dismisses the clatter
and focuses in
on the matter
at hand ...

A tip of the Saint Louis hat:
"A Cardinals fan?" ...
No, not even a fan,
don't even care
about the strangeness
of wings, the meaning
of things, nor the easy
stream of this here requiem,
just my zen baseball box score,
just my need to make
a connection above the war

Curt Schilling's bloody sock
goes up for sale
as his Titanic sinks
into a laundry pile
that hasn't been washed
since two-thousand and four
and now it's dirtier
than nine presidential campaigns

Bobby Valentine's February promises
are set ablaze by a fireball of Yankee
down and outers, up and comers
who have returned in October
in a snail mail of Saturn rings ...

I just can't think
of every thing