I've seen it said before so many times yet like words spoken of a handed down nature the pompous always tend to ignore great truths of the past.
I've seen great writers turned absolute **** with the stroking of their own ego.

I'd seen critics forged their own wants in the weakness of others who listen to bull crap wanting simply to be accepted.
Some chase what they believe to be a set path, there is no roadmap to success simply an afterthought to the losers who chase dreams often not their own.

I never chased ****!
I was always me not some watered-down version of another character I thought I could be so that's what you assumed.
Well you can assume your *** right out the door and out of my ******* face!

I live with no purpose I simply exist I thrive in my own madness and care little for the opinions of others.
I never force the write I simply follow it to wherever it leads me a river has only one direction.

Never truly believe your own *******.
Never think you're better simply know who you are.
Don't toil over the works of others admire it for what it is but don't let it **** with your head.

I never became a writer I just always was it wasn't  the cool thing to be it's just ingrained in my DNA.
The drinking, the drugs, the fast life wasn't some stylized afterthought  to seem hip it's just who I am.

You see my friends anyone can write but few can truly connect.
The page knows me better than I know myself it is here I'm vulnerable, it is here I am real for this is my existence.

It is my passion.
It is my life and ultimately it will be my death.
There is no gimmick and I never cater to a critic for one pompous ***** opinion matters less to me than a man who sits beside me and shares a drink.

Honesty is a poison in a society loaded with *******!
Never fear rejection and always embrace defeat without thought of a backup plan.

My work is my soul dark as it may seem never hasn't been considered fake.
But then again what do I truly know?
For to many I'm just a joker the town drunkard who sees more through dark glasses than many see within the light of day.

Never believe your own ******* because the moment you start to is the moment you begin to decay.

I love baseball.
The smell of the grass, the crack of the bat, the pop of ball hitting mitt.
I love baseball.
The friendship, the camaraderie, the seed shells littering the ground.
I love baseball.
From behind home plate, to the on deck circle, to the bullpen in right center field.
I love the fist bumps I recieve, entering the dug out after a well placed sac-bunt.
I love the hollers and cheers when the ball flies over the fence.
I love seeing the other players and knowing they love the same things as me.
Standing on the top step of the dug out, impatiently waiting for my spot in the lineup.
I love watching my shortstop tag out runner after runner.
I love my pitcher hitting his spots and I love our left fielder diving for pop flies.
I love catching and blocking ***** in the dirt.
I love the bruises I find on my body after every game.
I love keeping my foot on home plate before throwing over to first on a double play.
I love seeing the lights and hearing the cheers, knowing they're for me, my team, my sport.
I love baseball.

He'd just served up a dinger, 450 out...upper deck

His third home run that inning, and  he figured "what the heck"

He knew the hook was coming, first they had to make the call

Then the pitching coach would come out, before he had to give the ball

To the manager, all stoic, spouting rhetoric and then

He'd turn over the game ball, a kind of baseball zen

He'd come to learn this process,

He'd seen more and more this year

The time was getting closer

He'd have to hang 'em up this year

For five straight games he'd got the hook

Never getting to the third

And there was that team suspension

For flashing fans the bird

Frustration, more than anger made him vent and flash the sign

It was captured on the jumbotron, his finger.....8 foot 9

It made all of the sports reels, his finger in the air

But at 46, he thought, well....I really do not care

He was signed.. a bonus baby, out of Henderson N . V

He came up  out of high school in summer sixty three

His fastball, just untouchable...ninety miles per at least

And on opposing batters he would surely have a feast

He knew what he was throwing, was the best in many years

But at eighteen he was still surrounded by lots of big league  fears

In high school he set records, went to State, and led the team

He was the best left handed starter, Henderson had ever seen

He won each game he pitched in, hit for numbers, struck out tons

His team outscored opponents by at least three hundred runs

Scouts were out to watch him, every time he took the mound

And he knew this as he walked out, tossed the rosin on the ground

He chose to bypass college, heading to developmental ball

If he did what he was told, he be in Lakewood  by the fall

He got the call in August, saying "son, you're on your way"

"You'll be on the train this morning and tomorrow you might play"

So, he made his calls, told those he knew he was heading to N.J.

He was gonna set Lakewood  on fire, he was gonna have his day

He sat for weeks when he arrived, erratic was his stuff

"You've got to tame that curve ball kid, it's just not good enough"

His first start in September, he was nervous and concerned

What if I blow this chance and back to Texas, I'm returned

HE started off with two walks, hitting one then fanning three

He was feeling better, just what people came to see

After five innings they pulled him, with ten strike outs to his name

His team was up six nothing, he was gonna win this game

And sure enough the bullpen came on in and shut the door

And before the season ended he was winning three games more

That winter he went home again, and worked on his control

He knew what the coach wanted, he understood his role

Next spring down in  Clearwater he showed he had improved

So when the final cuts came down, up to double A he moved

It didn't take them long to find him burning up the mound

In fifteen starts, a hundred K's,  no one better could be found.

From here he went to Allentown, to AAA he'd go

Next move that he would make from here should put him in the show

He only threw 3 games down here, two big league starters down

He was called on up to the big time, and was starting....out of town

He only pitched an inning,  two thirds to be exact

He got lit up for 6 runs that night, hard to keep it all intact

He finshed out watching more games, than he pitched in but he knew

He'd be in the spring rotation wearing number forty two.

He met with mixed success at times never coming up real big

For as each year passed his fastball slowed and harder he would dig

His bonus money squandered, three wives gone, investmestments too

He bounced around the league a bit, hitting eight teams in succession

It was enough to do a weak man in, at least there's a concession

He was still up there, the show, on top, it didn't matter where he pitched

As long as he stayed healthy, he wasn't getting ditched

But one day he, on three days rest felt a twinge in his left arm

He pulled himself, and iced it, not doing any harm

But his pitching got erratic, speed was gone and no control

It was then he got the phone call...he was going to the hole

They moved him down to rehab some in AA across the state

He knew with no improvement that this would be his fate

Two years down here and then again, a new kid came along

Sorry, but you're going down...that was a lonely song

Two years and then he moved on back out West just to see

He knew he still had some heat...throwing nearly ninety three

But control...no way at that speed, slow it down...they'd hit him hard

Once he dropped it under eighty...all the batters...they went yard

But still he kicked around some, working nights, coaching some

Then he got the call from Joplin, got to see if he was done

He showed up fit, and did his best but still just couldn't toss

He'd get the speed but no control, the plate it wouldn't cross

The team was just a throw back, small market and little park

But inside he had desire, this place lit in him a spark

There never were too many fans, eight hundred at the most

But when he took the mound there, he could feel his younger ghost

On nights he wasn't pitching, he played first and coached third base

On other nights, he sat around and sold programs round the place

He knew that soon the time would come, he knew his bubble'd burst

He didn't throw as fast to  home as these kids did to first

But now, with the suspension, and him getting pulled five straight

He knew he'd overstayed his welcome, he'd been here far too late

"The ball...Jim, Jim, the ball....was all he heard coach say

He was already in the dugout and he wasn't gonna stay

He packed up and he left the park, left his rooming house as well

He had nowhere to go to, and maybe just as well

But the next year he was out there slinging just like Jim could do"

He was selling peanuts and some ******* jack at a ball parkin Purdue

The game is in his soul you see, it's part of who he is

Like Gherig, Ruth, Diamaggio, like Peewee and The Dizz

He owes his life to baseball. even though he stayed too late

"If he'd just controlled his curveball"...the kid...coulda been great.

I need to make myself busy
Before I can't get myself and do things that unexpected to be
I just want to take freely
And relax myself before I lost my sanity
I just need a bullpen and a paper right now
Cause all the things that going in my mind is I wanted to write down
If I will not do it , I know that there's a chance that I suddenly snap
And just cut myself with a sharp knife
And smile like an idiot when I see a crimson blood
Laughing even though it actually hurts
Wanting more even though it's already too much
Or worst being extremely happy because of what I've done
Even I know that it can take my life away in any minutes in time when I started to close my eyes..

place where bulls are held  
where baseball pitchers practice
warm up spot, bullpen

bent Hallmark card (for BJ Donovan)

”I'm a bent Hallmark card with no stamp. It won't reach my love”
                   BJ Donovan (HP gone, Gray Dotted, r.i.p.)

at the drug store, loose poems,
no right-sized envelopes left,
loosie cigs, for newly ‘underemployed’
both, thumbed, finger oil anointed-stained,
and
bent

all available for purchase
24/7, in these United States,
in national drugstores jailed,
kept in “chains” till discarded

therein hides the rub-bled best,^^
great verse writings, deadline-
inspired in a Ohio bullpen office,
@ corp. HQ by an Eng. Lit. major

composed, vetted, approved, yet
marked ‘failure,’ by quality control,
third Tuesday of every month, ritualized,
manager freshens display, victims chosen

Hallmark display, pruning the die-marked,
the no-hope cards, consigned, to a green
in-the-back-garbage dumpster resting place,
where you just may see me climbing-in

(and where America safe keeps its treasures)

droning on, as per usual, I’m kicked away by a
rent-a-cop, muttering insurance assurances, just
business, not personal, grab what cards I can, mine,
stolen pleasures, resending via insertion here ‘n there

my resurrection act, a new business, wife thinks
me stinks, but for me, a perfume of saved  words,
an act of rebirthing, god bless America, making it
great by giving Hallmark poems a second chance

gonna send one of those cards in envelope,
addressed to BJ Donovan U.S.A., no stamp,
inside note, your poems were ordinal, small
plates of sardonic pith, human foibles, on being

old, recalling youth, both celebrated, Icarus and Daedalus

pretty sure this poem may not get there but I believe
in poetry and the US Post Office, who delivers
mail to me, marked “Nat”^ and to Santa Claus,
which impresses, cause I’m mythical, he’s real

your compositions were breathtaking, literally,
miss your hallmarked witticisms, criticisms,
glad you escaped that virus nursing home jail,
if needed, write to “Nat, NYC, living somewhere
in a park, scribbling close by the East River”^

I’ll get it, like I got you, they know my special tree,
and the rock nearby, that too, is a known hideout,
no worries buddy good stuff may perish, but somehow
it gets a second wind, can’t keep a good scrip, down forever...

a very humbled admirer...

NaTTy

Sitting, dreaming, wishing
Eyes closed
My heart is what I'm pushing
Leave the window open
For me to get through tonight
Call the reliever from the bullpen
Bring him in for the good fight
The good fight's all we know
And a good time's all we want
My apprehension's starting to show
As we float away, flying high
To the sky, to the stars tonight

Take the good with the bad
Let the ugly hang out
Not in the mood, such a drag
All the reason in the world to pout
But no need, honey
It, it won't make us any money
No, no, no, no...

Brandish the knife with a smile
Let the blood trickle low
Been walking for ******* miles
Looking for something to blow
But this town's been down
Since before I can remember
And we've been bummin' around
Since the bleak days of early December
We walk, mind so hazy
As we talk of the blasphemies
Our heads are getting lazy
Only a matter of time before  I can't see
The things, the things, the things
Laid out in front of me

All ever wanted was to be taken seriously
But all I ever got was down looks
And all I ever said was taken mildly
So in this muddled opera
I sing out to the sky in crisis
My feet planted firmly
For fear of slipping down the icey
The icey hills
Where I will
Spend the rest of my foreseen days
In the heat
The ice will refuse to melt
A hundred degrees
Breaking my legs on cold I've never felt

Slow, as if beset by dreams and
Presently, afraid to fall asleep.
Encircle, bullpen predators.
I'm not afraid to die upon this hill.

Hanging a warning
sign on Tampa Bay's bullpen:
"Flammable Solids".

swim deep
never creep
let them know
it's you
find it
take a little bit
you are only
good for what
you need

turn tables
switch sides
the Clark Gable
do it for the ride
eyes wide
mouth open
wind whipping
don't need a bullpen

I'm just stuck on you
I know you dont want me
But I still can't get over you
Because you’re just so perfect
Every time I see you, you look so new
To me, anyway, because every time I see you

It's like I'm seeing you for the first time again
I think I’ll just keep to myself, though
Because every time I think about telling you I feel like I’m a pitcher in a bullpen
I think I’m gonna mess up the pitch and lose you
But even when I try to get over you
I’m always stuck on you

Economic Cattle

Greed-born troubles, minds decayed,
Fruits of folly on display.
Deaf and dumb, no thought, no plea—
Livestock for economy.



---------------------



A Murky Tale and a Frightful Fable

A fable’s just the start, they say,
The tale is darker far:
A fool obeys and strokes away—
The devil’s penned in char.

Now dreams and life are intertwined,
A "fantasy" untamed.
Do thinkers still remain behind?
Whom do they praise and name?

So few are wise—their idols lie,
Deceit is crowned instead.
The world sinks lower, scraping by,
Its soul already dead.

That fable—once creation bright—
Now fuels the flames ahead.
A tale of rot, of doomed delight—
Of ruin’s final spread.



---------------------



A Poet’s Bliss

These "autumn" tunes in verses ring,
So strong before the end—
For Satan’s madhouse, laughing, sing,
As darkness claims its land.

The filth will fade—its time is short,
Though now it floods the way.
So dare to speak—no fears to court,
When death stands but a day.

Yet death must meet your steady gaze
In every fleeting spark,
Then greed won’t lure your soul to waste,
You’ll break, yet leave your mark.

Then knock on walls—no fear, no chains,
For poetry is fight.
And if you fall, a voice remains—
One stronger will ignite.



---------------------



"Refined" Vulgarity

****** turns to "deep" instead—
A twisted mind, a snob well-bred.



---------------------



Babbling Freaks of Pseudoscience

A "fact" is bent to fit the mold,
The fool keeps silent, bought and sold.
For science false, the rule is plain—
Just empty words, a hollow chain.

What breaks their claims, they’ll never see,
Blind fools won’t hear what truth might be.
They trust their modern prophet clan,
Where "proof" and nonsense go hand in hand,
And faith in lies corrupts the land.



---------------------



"Faith," So to Speak

To "trust" means twisting all through lore,
A mind-disease, a fever sore.
And in delirium’s embrace,
I’ll "find" my "savior"—fall from grace.



---------------------



A Servile Mind

Like lambs, they march without a fight,
To slaughter—glad, convinced they’re right.
They only dare to doubt and fear
Themselves—so simple, so sincere.



---------------------



I lay to rest by cannon’s side
Amidst the war’s mad, raging tide...
— What curse upon these people fell?
— They failed to see their captive cell.
For "freedom’s" lash still drives them blind,
And once again they trust the Lie.



---------------------



This "culture" drill—I've had enough,
Its hollow rules—just twisted stuff.
The fools preach "virtue" loud and clear,
While scoundrels drive the herd with fear.
They fool the minds, prepare bullpen,
Then send the weak to die again,
While idly chatting all along:
"Stand up! Stay strong! Keep fighting on!"



---------------------



"It's just a business," they will say,
Excusing all in greed's embrace.
Then sink still lower day by day—
No depth too dark for their disgrace.



--- Total 10 poems. ---