If I had a mix tape
It would be thirty one hours long
Get the cassettes ready
Poetry was something I chose and we're going steady
Sometimes I draw details out tediously but sometimes I like to get with the program already
They say Rap is Poetry
But I didn't compare my work to the McDonalds bathroom floors
The disrespect towards women, money and drugs
It's a dog but it's not as cute as a Pug
Someone end this concert, pull the plug
We used to have a standard and kept it snug
But even the Snails are laughing
We're too slow to realize
That were accepting bile with our eyes
And we're encouraging it
Why?
I have a mixtape
But I'm no legend
But neither are they
I just hope my influence is here to stay
Because as the clock arm sways
I get older another day
And I want to be sincere in a way
That will dramatically improve your day
I hope you feel the warmth of my heart hotter than May
Because it burns for you
And we don't need to pull out the other thirty mixtapes because I only need one
Let the repugnant trends come undone
I'm a song that's been left unsung
But that's okay
Because I want you to sing it
It will be more resplendent than the harmony of the Mockingbirds
And it tunes out the geese
That make me act the opposite of PeeWee Reese
And pull out a shotgun
Ernset Hemingway was relatable in that way

It must have been thirty five years ago now,
I remember the kid as clear as day
His name was Eddie, or Timmy or something
Remember him clear as day, I think it was Eddie
Well, this kid was sure something
A true believer in his ability to play the game
He really loved it, ****** at it, but the desire
You could see it in them brown eyes of his
Or were they blue?, no matter...they might have been brown
Anyways, kid had desire, no talent, but desire
Played third base for me, thought he was a pitcher
But, he played third...that I'm sure of
He didn't have speed enough to move anywhere else
And I think he was blind in his right eye,
So, he could only move left
Good kid, Timmy or Eddie
Had an arm like a rocket
the ball would just explode out of his hand
I never knew where it was going
And truthfully, I don't think he did either
But, wow....it went fast, wherever it ended up
Kid actually made it rain one day
Just because he threw the **** ball so high into the clouds
He was trying to throw to first, but hell, it went high
Always smiling this kid, always...
don't know if he was just happy
Or if his jaw hadn't grown right for his teeth,
But, he was always smiling
couldn't hit worth a ****, had a nice swing
But, that blind eye....couldn't see a pitch until it hit him
Cooled us down on the bench though
Made a hell of a breeze when he swung
He was good for that,
lots of wind from Eddie, or Timmy
He did get a hit once or twice, I remember that
Scared us, scared him too I imagine
But, he did hit it, and it did go a long way
Problem was it happened so infrequently
He always forgot to run
And when he did, he ran like a duck
*** wobbled all over, arms flailing, head still
Quack, Quack...run Eddie, I'd yell
He'd smile, and take off,
couldn't see where he was going
But he'd run....and he'd stop only when he felt like it
I remember he was Mexican looking, or Spanish
There, brown eyes...knew I'd remember
anyways, he got called out for swearing once
Knocked the **** cover off the ball
then he stood there and watched it go
By the time he started to run,
He'd Holy ******* at least three times
And got tossed by the umpire
I argued, but, the ump would draw the line at two
Three holy *****...that's a little much
But, he knocked that ball into the next county
He'd probably throw it there too if he tried
The kid had desire, no talent,
but a smile and desire
Got tossed after striking out once too
Struck out a lot, once he let loose with a barrage
And I mean a barrage of swear words ....In Italian no less
I always thought the kid was Mexican or Spanish or something
But, he swore in Italian in front of an Italian ump
Poor kid, three holy ***** in another language
And he got tossed,
If I could get him to stop at two....he'd be fine
Eddie was a good kid, I liked him
He tried, he smiled, and he was terrible
couldn't hit water if he fell out of a boat
But he didn't care, and neither did I
But, Eddie, or Timmy, whoever he was
Was a good kid,
I hope he remembers me as fondly as I do him.

Everyone is cheering  
waiting for the ball to swing.
They are all so intense
waiting in suspense.
They want to see who will win.
Suddenly, the ball starts to spin.
Crash! It falls down
straight at the ground.
The batter starts to run.
In the hot, blazing sun.
YES! Its a Home Run!

The day arrived, the sun was out
The sky was perfect, calm
All was as it should be
No resistance 'fore the storm
A winter gone, a spring in bloom
Things were as things should be
Fresh paint and banners hung out
For all the world to see
Bunting just the way it was
On days like this before
It showed off baseball's history
No less and nothing more
The lines were crisp and dedicated
The foul lines and the fair
The team logos were painted
Silence hung in the spring air
A church for fifty thousand
To revere this game they'll see
And if each single seat is filled
There'll be fifty thousand forty three
The boys of summer own this field
New history shall be made
While fans scream for their favorites
As the game is being played
A chess game on such pristine grass
At this park it's real
At others you will find that it
Is plastic...and lacks feel
The players, some are new as well
They were not here last year
The owners changed the line ups so
Your favorites are not here
Fathers, sons, and daughters
Share this circus every spring
It's a rite of family passage
To most a holy thing
New jerseys, hats and banners
Showing where alliegance lies
There is no joy in Mudville
As each person chooses sides
The umpires, too, begin anew
They must be on the ball
Today's game is most scrutinized
You cannot miss a call
The sense of pomp and circumstance
In this annual ceremony
Breaks out all of the rituals
In a loud cacophony
The teams announced and anthems sung
Color parties raise the flags
This is what baseball's all about
Home plate and three new bags
The smell of ******* jack and beer
Hot dogs and candy corn
Soon start to infiltrate the park
And they break up this fresh morn
The players sit below now
Waiting for the game to start
Cliche speeches break the air
As the managers play their part
It's time to all get ready
Put this years "uni" on
And to rid your self of buttlerflies
And get that feeling gone
You check yourself before hand
Make sure that the outfits good
And you go over the ground rules
And know exactly what you should
Your'e as important to this game now
You are the holder of their fate
For your job is most important
You let the patrons though the gate
The actors in this rite of spring
Are varied in their roles
From players, umps and concessioneirs
They all make baseball whole
The opening of each season
Shows off every single team
From the players out there on the field
To the ones behind the scenes.
You put your best foot forward
Because you want them all to say
That baseball is just special
Because of Opening Day.

This poem is a Google Adwords ad,
Intruding into the sidebar of your heart.

It’s a 1-800-LAWYERS commercial
Making you money off your personal injury.

It’s a brutal, ****** UFC bout,
Weak in its ground game but knows its Jiu-Jitsu
And it’s got you on the mat, begging you to tap out.

This poem is *****,
a SNAFU waiting to happen.

It’s the sarin gas Syria used against its own
And it’s the attack America will be responding with,
Using ****** to punish murderers.

This poem is a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken
Getting your finger-lickin’-good fingers nice and greasy.

This poem is yet another poet writing yet another poem about poems,
With the word poem repeated ad nauseum.

This poem is a bunch of awful band names,
Like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Tapes ‘n Tapes, and Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!.

It’s a summer blockbuster and a teen dystopian trilogy.

It’s riding *****
In your ex’s car.

This poem is anthropogenic global warming
Whose CO2 emissions are dangerously high and climbing
While its polar bears are stranded on the broken ice floes of its verses.

It’s a baseball crowd speaking the words “no hitter”
In the midst of a no-no
Which itself is a no-no.

Its bad grammar, who’s comma’s are all, out of place
And its’ apostrophe’s, are meaningless.

This poem is Zooey Deschanel,
Who will not marry me some day, any day, in the future.
In fact, it doesn’t even know I exist.

Death stares exchanged
Muscles spring loaded
*Explosion, slide, safe!

Let love's sunset into my heart
With sullen greys tinged in pink
With last rays of warmth
Before there comes the chill

Let the last breath of fulfillness
Ease around my heart
Take away the sunny memories
Softly as the light fades away

Fading fast empty embraces
And kisses that have no taste
As softly whispered I love yous
Fall into the Atlantic sea

Come nightness surround now
My empty heart
Console my ache and care
So come now , sunset of my heart

A good fastball
is not achieved
without a good
changeup. That
is to say that one
must feel the circle
within his stretched
hands and gently
unravel her laces
with your fingertips;
before you simply
jam it up inside of
the zone as fast as
you can.

When im home alone
I like to walk outside
In the middle of the yard
And hear everything

Theres so much to see
To hear
When no one
Is there to speak.

I hear poetry
In the christmas carols
Ringing from the houses
All around me

From the train
Roaring away
Just down the street
From my small existence

The baseball feild
Is illuminated
And the cheers ring
Over the line of trees

And everything
Around me
Is so
Alive

How can i dare
To believe im anything
Next to this universe
Of noise and life