So baseball starts soon and pitchers and catchers reported today. This is the most excited i've been since the Kansas City Chiefs won the Superbowl. I know that's not long but baseball is just amazing and an awesome display. Baseball is that sport that you can't run the clock out and don't have total control. Anything can happen in baseball. It's amazing to see the comebacks that can happen. If your the Astros you'll just want to forestall. Baseball is always somebody's passion. Some people say is boring. Others say it is a smart person's game. How can it be boring and lame if all those fans are roaring. Baseball every season relights the same flame.

I swear a good deal more when in the city
my wife observes as we two wend our way
along the street. The towers are kind of pretty:
walls of glass, yet blocking out the day
so down here on the sidewalk dreary shadows
are damp reminders of how far we've come
from towering trees, from open mossy meadows,
from ravens swishing by. Look, here's a slum
a block or two from banking towers and glamour.
I should not fault the place. Variety
is the spice, they say. But such a clamor
of humans challenged by sobriety!
Life here was once quite good to me, but now
I'm just a rustic, pining for his plow.

Oil
Exhaust
Handstand theatre
In the back of a van
Underground avenue
Has the scent of
Stale black licorice
Melted into the sidewalk
The familiar odor of traffic
Is a pedestrian substitute
For the Old World charm
This renovated place
Paved over
Long
Ago

Far beyond the gable ends of dark suburban streets
Riding past the furthest flats where paths give way to fields

Where giant cranes with groaning frames are elevators into space
Looming over dark estates, unoccupied and halfway built
A regiment of vacant digs

Set out just like theatre props; a sort of play not yet begun
The porches laid with welcome rugs for when the future tenants come

And when they take up residence and get their keys and pay their rent
They'll surely never think of me as I have thought of them
The countless nights I've seen to spend, exploring every lamplit bend

Or how I'd trekked those distant places, before they'd laid the first foundations
Beyond the reach of tired feet, where fauns or fairies surely meet

The dark and curing plains are real and stretch for starry miles around
The rustle and din of windblown things, the rush of moonlit clouds

And soon from now when strangers come and pick the perfect house to live
And make it theirs and settle in and pick a room to put the crib
I'll stop the squeak of spinning wheels upon some distant mound or cliff
And moving closer to the lip; Dublin twinkles past the tip

In Georgia, it is 82 degrees.
Sweltering sticky heat and air so thick with humidity
It’s like you’re swimming through syrup
Weigh me down.
Sweat slips down my spine like living water, a reminder that
I am here— uncomfortable, yes, but not quite hurting.
People smile. I smile back.

In New York, it’s 39 degrees.
Wind whips at my face, rendering my cheeks rosy and stinging my eyes with tears.
My teeth chatter, rattling my whole jaw with them.
The subtle pain reminds me I’m alive.
I’m not quite sure when I decided pain and existence were synonymous
But I did
And today is another reminder.
I smile. No one smiles back.

At least they’re alive. At least I am.

all the city’s a womb, a constant buzz,
a dim blue night that a river bisects.
you huddle
around the window
and gaze
at the faint traces of the sun
left in the sky’s retina.
midnight is just a suggestion
that lingers in the back
of your filament brain. the
wordless candle, its aura. ask
the dawn for a kiss.
the bed
is your doom. the night’s black
mist bleeds.

when the sun has regained some
confidence, its reach on the land
reestablished, its lucid eye alert,
you hide from its gaze. you cower
from the great daisy in the recesses
of inverted sleep; 6 in the morning
to 3 in the afternoon. rising out
of your slumber is like
challenging a rip tide,
only to find
the shore exposes
your naked body.

I have not loved anyone since the spring.
I'm beginning to have my doubts that I will ever find that perfect matchstick moment again.
But I'm throwing myself into everything,
trying to scare myself into love again.
What we had wasn't love but god
in the movies that's everything that love was made of.
I don't mind being a bad memory.
I don't mind being that Katy girl.
Because I ******* know we had something special
and I could have loved you forever.
Let me be that complicated girl.

I'm sure she's beautiful, Hubble.