Thinking outside the foul pole
of the Taoist physics of baseball,
outside the ever-expanding slice of pi,
outside the statistical analysis
of all the big names gone cold
in late spring, for the Great Nine
split into four-point-five pointed stars,
for numbers becoming no Boy Scout,
believe you, me ...
Billy Beane chased the ghost
out of the machine dream
when the Bronx Bombers
flew overhead and the mobbed bosses
stole it all back: the rivers, the streams,
the automated stacks of bats sponsored by
the volcanic flows of the sick and dying
in the psychological steam so bad
we could barely scream out a defiant
chorus of "Sweet Caroline" ...
And so the baseball heart, hit out of the park,
flew out of me, as I flew out ... And then the Capistranos
of consistency on the mound raised a fist in the air
thanking Jesus, who, when he appeared
suddenly, on command, in center field,
hit the ground, mortal, in terror, naked, alone,
hurting bad, scared and mad at the scene
of so many ballplayers, thanking God
for the home runs hit in his name,
as if he cared ...
This pitch, sponsored by Jesus ...
This spit, sponsored by Satan ...
This Moneyball sponsored by ...
This and this and this
on the scored and board
of the Lord, Oh Jesus,
Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus ...