#jays
The Boys of Summer were all named "David"
that year,
But "George" and "Ernie" and "Davis" and "Vladimir."
An overpriced clan of underachieving also-rans,
Last place dishwater, poured into tin pans
But stories are made of such sinewy stuff,
the connective tissue--the gristle--that only chews tough
and never goes down. Of infield dirt on dark blue jerseys,
Of bright red on white pants, from bleeding, skinned knees and wide smiles shining under 7th inning light.
And what is The Great Game?
A story.
The Great Game is a poem.
It whispers and surges and wanes and then screams.
A child of fickle fate, following parental footsteps,
selling beer and hot dogs to the Norns as they weave,
(team sweaters in the 8th inning roar)
A city, a province a country had guessed, in swing-and-miss dreams,
and blown-call cogitating, of .500 finishes and lukewarm bathwater--Of room temperature chow at the kids' table, and calling it "strides."
But Goliath was sleeping after twelve peals of the bell,
and the first round was over like a pinch-hit homer.
The Boys of Summer were all named "David"
that year,
But "Kirky," and "Davis" and "Gausy" and "Bo,"
"The Hound," and "Isaiah," "The Savage" and "Mad Max."
_"words that are heavy with nothing but trouble..."_
_Our_ Tinkers. _Our_ Evers. _Our Chance._
The giants played on their ground and from on high they fell,
by grand walls, by glass towers, by the frothing seas.
A City's Chosen Sons spent their summer slaying titans.
What is The Great Game?
It is a poem.
And our teams are protagonists.
What is the ballpark?
It is a cathedral.
We kneel at the Altar of Grass-Stained Knees,
and with infield dirt whispers of oiled mitt leather do we pray:
_"Let's play two." "Say hey."_
Play ball.
Nov 3, 2025
Nov 3, 2025 at 6:21 PM UTC
The blue jays rise the dead
to rise with the sun.
Singing the suns song of his divine departure
as he departs those farther from their fathers,
farther towards the heavens,
bathed in heavenly glow.
Bound still to the earth, mourners cry
mourning a loss
deemed lost by the morning light.
Lighting up their despairs
despaired as life moves on,
missing out on a life.
The song a blue jay sings
is the same
as the ballad a mourner cries.
Jun 20, 2024
Jun 20, 2024 at 3:56 PM UTC
I got dumped on by a blue jay
While out sitting in my yard
The fact that I'm a Tigers fan
Made the bombing rather hard
I do not like the red birds
I mean, the team can't pitch or hit
But, I'm sure that if I pick on them
One will fly by me and ****
The Orioles, I do not like
I guess you've got the scoop
If I pick on them as well
One will fly by me and ****
There's a ball team down in Mexico
The parrots, to them I'll tip my cap
Because you know, if I 'dis them
One will fly overhead and crap
There are other teams named after birds
I don't know them all...do you?
So, I will let them off the hook
In case one comes by to pooh!
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 9:57 AM UTC
This little electronic corner of the world
We write about perms and fades and smoking J's
Instead of vision and living and learning faith
Creating something to remember takes a backseat to taking drugs to forget your failed attempts
And in contempt you tell yourself you'll try harder
Get smarter
And either die a martyr
Or retire the father of a son or a daughter who will live on and alter the empire you built or the entire world which we live
But you acknowledge none of this will happen if you don't try
*And then you get high
And do exactly that*
And pass the time between coming down and lighting up by writing about perms and fades and smoking J's
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC