Begin of warm weather
And the
Start of baseball, the count down starts;
Each day it gets closer to Opening Day.
Baseball season is the best season!
And I love watching my
Love play while I keep score, official!
Let's go Red Sox!!

Babe Ruth smokes a Raleigh in the doorway,
as i give birth to a broken mirror
if home is where the heart is, i live on the state line
or on my sleeve
he knows that, and as he finishes his cigarette
i ask him if he ever thinks about cancer
"i think of it like i think about 1949,
so far away"

It's hard to meet new people
they're so foreign
they do things like wear hats
and play baseball
they listen to bad music
they like crossword puzzles
I don't like to hear them talk
but
      at night
when I get very cold
and sometimes it hurts to breathe
I'd like one of them next to me
or I'd like to hear them talk
anything to make me warm again
I can't have it all
but sometimes
I want it.

My life is a series of questions that come at me like a 90 mph curve ball straight to the chest, and I don’t have a bat to answer them.

If only I was a baseball player, and could decipher one pitch from the next

Because the only pitch I can knock out of the park is the question “why are you sad?”

And my home run answer is

“I don’t know”

Staring at the man
who wishes
for me to
sit down

I will crush it
that spherical demon
high strung with
cotton twine and pleather

Throw at me, bro!
Gaussian function
calculated velocity
ready to strike

Don't cross my domain
this is my house!
my sneer gets sneerier
my grip intensifies

KAPOWzawazzzzA!
the earth quakes
my energy released
Sixty feet to victory!

I move like the wind
of hurricane force
I feel a POP!
Thirty feet to saftey

I limp
back home
I'm too old for
this $hit!

Heat and ice
twice thrice
doctor's reason
out for the season

You want me to wear
logos in my hair
and purchase
the matching scarf?

A billboard for sale
at the human scale
Sporting your brand
Oh, what a larf!

Go Team Go!
Print on a throw
For the low price
of fifty-four dollars

I'd rather be happy
not buying your sappy
stuff that you sport
on your collars

you tell me to buy
because i'll look fly
and fill up my closet
with swagger

Believe when I say
not one single day
I'll fall to the dance
of your dagger!

I do not think
my mind will hold

out much longer.
I forget basic

details of conversations. I
walk into the kitchen

and forget my reason
for having walked

into the kitchen. I can
discern now when

people are being
polite by not

mentioning the fact that
it is the third

or fourth time I've
told that story again.

I am thirty-four
years of age.

Thirty-four
years of age. Thirty-

four years
of age.

I love baseball perhaps
now more than

ever before. It
requires no

memory, no cohesive
narrative, each

moment when the
pitcher releases the

ball its own
microcosm—

its own tick
in an atemporal clockwork

flush with gears but
lacking cogs entirely,

a moment savored
and then quickly

forgotten, like
the taste of a

perfectly ripe summer
strawberry, smothered

by the sweltering haze
of a mid-July afternoon.

Maybe snow cones
And pickup lines
Aren’t meant to go
Hand in hand,
But I needed a map
Because I was lost in your eyes.

You gave me a snow cone
I gave you my number
And maybe
That’s not a good trade
But you thought
Maybe
It was worth it
At least for one night.

You’re just a football-playing
Baseball boy
And maybe
There was a spark
And maybe
You liked the taste of grape
That lingered on my lips
And maybe
You’re still going
To text me back.

But maybe
Is no assurance
To a girl
In love with love
And boys who make
Snow cones.