"baseman" poems
At What Cost?
This Purchase of Our Future
*a thousand answers + variegated shadings, a summation:
∑
of millions layers of our owned chosen complexities,
so many possible outcomes, it makes infinite randomness
seemingly simpler than our googolplex crazy preposterous
notational choosings, our owned decisions which though false,
cause nothing is tandomn random except for love at first sight
it’s all just ******** we conditioned from pre-birth,
the expectations subtly subsumed into the woman’s womb,
overlaid by the ***** donors whisperings that you will be a
great third baseman, or a great bass player, or both, but
“your” fate, ha!
is anything but yours…
to purchase!
if you were born to live in a home with no heat, and water was
obtainable by walking 100 yards away, you would still be a
pianist, writing notes of plaintive need, grand desires, musical
words of agonizing delight just as when
you first blushed when the brain
connected yellow rays with a word,
sunrise,
and an experience was synapticaly imprinted,
that real things could be defined by an ordering of letters and sounds
and you were tongue burnt by a need so great
to collect these pleasurable things and put them in a right order
of your
peculiar
particular
personal
inherited inputted
design
=
and
you yet debate
what is my instrument,
knowing that the multiples of your fingers
are the engine of your existence,
and on any particular day they, your well connected perma-crew,
will pick which is the chosen one,
and
no matter which,
for you had nothing or little purchase,
it was coded in your pre-history
just as you prepare a transmission list
of your own,
when you daily first touch your face,
closing the sensory sensual connection tween
the ephemeral and the physical
and
the new combinations
that you will imprint upon
someone’s flesh,
that is your right,
that is you write,
that is what you were
predestined,
to
create
but,
(what the heck)
you get
to-pick the instrument of the day…*
(
that,
is your purchase, your only cost,
everything else has been
pre-paid
)
Nov 9, 2023
Nov 9, 2023 at 8:54 AM UTC
When I think of you I hear a baseball game.
Thousands screaming around us as the 2nd baseman gets the second out at the bottom of the 5th
Thousands of voice waves fill the stadium
For once my ADHD clogged mind is able to focus on one single thing
You.
When the thought of you crosses my mind
I remember car rides
Aimlessly driving
Like time, the car flys
Blurry lights
Red light
We blow through it
Your arm like a switch blade
Cuts aross my chest
Time slows and you say
"Sorry it's me being protective
I guess a force of habit."
When your name slides into my brain through one of the holes in my face
I am graced with the memory of silence
Silence at 4:03am in the morning
I learn you're a silent crier
If I ever glance at the clock at 5:13 in the morning
My photographic memory will play for me
That time of us laying under the trees
Watching the night fade
Then attempting to figure out
How to get me inside without waking up my parents
When you dwell in my head I remember a few lessons
You taught me patience
Patience is good for the young naive soul
6 months of silence and suddenly the memory is no longer sweet
I think of you less
I receive a letter every few weeks
You sign your name with a heart
PS a promise that you'll be coming home soon
6 months ago I promised I'd wait for you
Lover I am lonely
I crave your arms and only your arms to hold me
But it's been 26 weeks without you and my patience is growing ever so weak
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
Playing by all the rules,
or so it seems,
the out-law fears
nothing and no one
as she
places her backwards cap
atop her
full head of fine hair,
sunshades
hiding her wide
toffee-colored
eyes.
Chewing hard on a piece of
wintergreen gum
like a first baseman
and some chaw,
she grips the steering wheel
as a heavy clap of
bass
emits a thundering chorus
out her rolled-down windows
into the half-empty street.
Brow furrowed,
the out-law ponders her next move,
bobbing and weaving through
one-way roads;
the destination she knows,
but the route is more
a riddle
yet to be solved.
The light air
and brilliant rays of sun
that sneak behind
puffy white clouds,
the out-law senses
some promise
from the
universe.
Lungs still filled
with
smoky wisdom,
she reflects intricately
on the life
lived by she
in the past few months,
gaining insight
into her own
optimistically
curious
soul.
She slurps
her Diet Coke
thirstily
as her cottony mouth
forms words and phrases
she one day
wishes to utter.
Time and space,
they are dear friends of the
out-law,
so drive she does
down that
long
windy
road,
twisting and turning
on the beacon of self-discovery
and hope.
And
love.
The out-law
watches the sky,
fascinated
by the rich colors
the sun paints
as it falls into a state
of serenity,
and
the out-law feels so serene.
Leaving comfortability
and safety behind,
the out-law relishes
in the excitement of the unknown,
getting high off
the fumes
of the uncertainty
that looms.
On she drives.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
He wished he’d been born tough
instead of already broken down in ways.
Raised by an English teacher;
he didn’t complain about it,
but sometimes wished
it was by a linebacker
or first baseman instead.
Jesus Christ, just look at him!
He was a yard across at the shoulders
yet a good shove would’ve
put him on his ***
He resented it sometimes;
especially considering the way
he was wired.
Like a pilot light
that’s always looking for a reason
to fire up all four burners
all at once.
Sometimes he wished
that he could fight his way out of a bar,
just once.
Spend the night on a jailhouse cot.
Go to the ER with a broken nose.
The adult in him knows that these are foolish thoughts.
He’s too old for that **** now,
pushing 40.
Sometimes he feels 25 and powerful.
Sometimes he feels geriatric and slow.
He likes himself better now than he did
10 years ago.
But, then wonders what could’ve been
and who he’d be if he’d been able
to draw his first breath just
15 minutes sooner.
In the end, he figures that
maybe he’d like himself less than he does
right now.
That’s the only thought
that saves him
now and then.
***
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
Sandt Amaro and Karl Spooner on the old Brooklyn Dodgers.
My 2 all-time favorite players of my favorite team the Yankees are
an putfielder acquired in a transaction Vernon Webb
and the Rookie of the Year for, I believe, 1957
an outfielder first baseman Norm Cisbern.
My 2 favorite all-time Illinois basketball players were sixth men Ed Perez and Joseph Bertrand.
My 2 favorite all-time Detroit Lions are Bobby Cayne and Pork Walker with Ces Bingaman a nice third.
My favorite all-time Cleveland Browns are Otto Graham and Frank Gatsby.
My all-time 2 favorite Chicago Bulls are Michael Jordan and Dave Corzine.
Mordern-day-wise, I like Parig of the LA Dodgers, Steven Aren who last I saw was with the Washington Nationals, and in modern Illini football I loved Monty Wilson. He hit so hard and the sound of a prize recruit who never got in on a game. D'Angelo McGary and I liked the sound of the name. Duane Brantley who was a large for the time offensive lineman out of Chicago wo dropped out before he had a chance to play.
This is just scratching the surface, I guess, since I'm not into the star system per se.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
"Hit Run Score, We Want More!"
I hit,
I get to second,
Double.
Two outs, one on second.
"Batter up!"
Batter steps up to the plate
First pitch,
She grounds the ball
Out to the first baseman.
They're both rushing to first.
I'm rushing to third,
"BATTER OUT!"
So close.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
I DON'T GIVE A ****
WHY?
"You asking me why?"
"When was the last time we spoke ?:
"When was the last time you saw her?"
Who?
"Don't play stupid with me
I'm not tryna hear all that
I'm out
You are such ******* *********
Your eccentric personality
The illusions
The constant confusions
The subtweets
The words
The allure
The pseudo care
The Korean noodles
The massages
The animal ***
The guilt
The phone calls
The texts
The drama
Repeat
We lie to lay with each other
To find out about each other
Till clever words
Make us distant
Eluding your illusions
A handful
Even for my two hands
Checking on me like a baseman in the ninth inning
Patrolling my twitter is what keeps you winning
DMs got me sinning
DMs got me sinning
DMs got me sinning?
DMs got me feeling tremendous
Newness and
New man
New thing.
out in the west end
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
helloreactmarcoshe'sdiamondpoloshapepoemshallwritehomehelppitchercatcherlessonsturnplaybatterboyhouseinsidehithiddenjustbeneathbabylittlelookingstupidpopularspacereallosermeansecretsadmitbasesecondtalkingworthlessactionsbrokenridingstrugglecommentskitchenrushingtakingsoftballwasn't creepy they're day street physical turns mom dolls taunting plates ghostly chase snow wander outside cat takes starts mumbles captive basement plate glad winner destroyed diamonds handle regret smart confidence amused irresponsible wallpaper mommy outs negatively untrusting dumbwaiter barbie aren't he's nobody's agrivated isn't temporarily teams double joins jealous backyard copy insecure upset creaky refuses bully claims team scratches grounds baseman fight run allow alive trying room worse comes god thank close place sky fact continue angels hiding years lose chair gone does nice know tell like lies practice things want score hate watch window left right held believe old mature afraid stare shell walks instead refuse negative steps game ball big everyday month positive join pitch playing turned worth new think answer leave perfect hard scary lonely beautiful floor lived places sight toys door protect says
Can they become more than the label,
My 1.0K Words?
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
always trying to prove something, to neself, to the universe,
to the person down the street
ehh purple hair and fractional tennis ***** then
lead the plastic barriers,
remember the number
ohh saintly hell, I feel like the callous on my feet are even stronger than last month, and this walk is jazzy
so I go about proving the gods, or some diety, that this is, infact, tanglible...artifact to be exact
proving it to the widow who fancies the conversation more than the content,
proving it to pine needles who know they willl fall in two, three days, anyway
prove it to myself, and my toes, and my eyeballs
red flesh and bolstered blood,
can I have a candybar for sixpence from the richardsome magician in the sky?
no, he is occiupid with tobacco candy and the home baseman is comalainging about his peanut pickings
If only I was a kite, then fate would truely be out of my hands, and there wouldn't be any more reason to feel proud,
perhaps tied to a tree for an eternity, perhaps confused bewtee the medeterranean sea and south africa,
who could i be?
May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 4:21 PM UTC