Turning the pages of Sunday’s paper,
eyes spilling tears upon reading
of the ambush killing of a local cop,
and  elsewhere, cops as killers,
the horror of the murders
of twenty angels and their guardians
at a small-town school,
people just having a holiday party,
going to a movie,
people attending church, for god’s sake.
I make my way to the sports section,
that fantasy-land of touchdowns,
home runs and slam dunks,
only to find stories of drunken outfielders
and homicidal/suicidal linebackers
wielding pistols
followed by a half-page ad
for the Guns and Gear store,
urging me to get in on the deals—
an assault rifle, only $649.99,
semi-automatic pistols from $319 to $549,
all the ammo a person could need
to shoot up a school, a theater, a mall, a business,
a synagogue or mosque or church,
even an army base.
My sorrow vinegars to frustration and anger,
that my letters to so-called representatives
must be written on thousand dollar bills
to even get a reading,
answered by a staffer’s reply that says nothing,
and, in the end, dear god,
I’m left with prayer and poetry,
the children of necessity, drowning in futility.

hi dudes this briano alliano up here on saturn to welcome richie benaud and i can guarantee

the cosmos is blessed to have a great man, and here is richie singing come on aussie come on

hi everyone, i say hello to saturn

you see lillee pounded down like a machine

taylor was the best captain you’ll ever seen

brett lee got a hat trick, merv, kim and phil hughes were pretty rad yeah

till phil hughes died last year oh yeah

thommo is pounding like another machine

as a bowler he was very fast and mean

you see he will pick up wickets, while the outfielders clearing pickets

and the chappell eyes, have got their eyes on the green

then pascoe is making divvits in the green

border ordered his players around like noone you’ve ever seen

and rod marsh took some catches like healy and haddin, to win those matches

and i remember joel garner and micheal holding cleaned us out, oh yeseree

we still went, come on aussies come on, come on, come on aussies come on

after that small song, ritchie benaud took phil hughes on the cosmic turf, where my dad and mark jones

and tony grieg and rob douglas and stan niemic and phil hughes and many many more, and crocus’s earth body brian allan

played cricket at john knight memorial park, i made some great hook shots, it was cool, dad who had bias long legs

hit 34 runs off 45 *****, yeah and dad gave a methane smoothie to richie, saying welcome to the cosmos, and

mark jones hit 23 off 34 ***** and gave richie a new earth drink coca cola life, which is a drink which will put you

in touch with the cosmos, congratulations richie, marks my name, you will come back to earth when the cosmos is ready

to let you return and tony grieg scored 123 off 112 ***** and after that, he gave richie benaud a methane smoothie

and rob douglas got 87 off 100 *****, but rob said, good on you richie, you’ll a fine player, and tipped methane all over

richie saying, good job old pal, and stan niemic scored 123 off 123, and going at a run a ball, stan was happy, and when he finished

he poured methane all over saying welcome to the cosmos, and phil hughes scored 56 off 56 and went over to richie tippe

tipped a keg of methane on him and said thanks mate old chum old pal for those kind words and the other players together averaged at 123 off 122 *****

and richie benaud had methane smoothies all over him and at the end every player went into saturn club rings

to have a great celebration for the great richie benead with a lot of bottles and kegs of coca cola life, which will,

improve the quality of their lives on earth, and everyone was dripping with methane and might i add malcolm marshall bowled

very well as the official bowler getting 34 wickets, now malcolm marshall is matty b, on youtube, but this game was in honour

of the great richie benaud, welcomed to the cosmos and malcolm poured a bit of coca cola life on richie saying you love life, dude

and briano alliano came out and said

ritchie was the best commentator you’ll ever seen

you see i watched him on channel nine congratulate the gold and green

you see here everyone, welcome this great man

to the cosmos, he’s the happiest in the land

welcome ritchie benaud yeseree

the world will miss him, oh yeah you see

because you hosted nines coverage, of the cricket, well done mate

now what will buddha do with you

come on aussies come on come on, come on aussies come on

well done, ritchie benaud, WELCOME

see you next time, this was a great cosmic cricket match, dudes

now the saturn club rings was filled with methane, PARTY ON, to next life, ritchie

They built the thing in the wrong **** direction, you know.
The “sun field” being home plate, and come late afternoons
Every pitch a potential life-and-death experience
For hitter and catcher alike
(One young Mets farmhand, in a fit of sheer exasperation,
Actually came to the plate in full catcher’s garb.)
Still, it was—well, at least once a upon a time—just a short hop
From Pittsfield to The Show, and any old timer
Will gladly talk your ear off about how Kenny Brett,
Barely a year out of high school, don’t you know,
Went straight from here to The Impossible Dream
(Though Kenny, so improbably young in all their memories
Is long since dead now, gone like the boom-times
Before GE shut down,
Leaving nothing behind but poisons in the Housantonic.)
That is all memory, though, the park’s fortunes
Fading hand-in-hand with the city’s,
Inhabited by low-level minor league clubs
Where one player a summer
Might get his Crash Davis moment in the sun,
And later indie-league teams with kids and hangers-on,
All barely good enough to dream.
Now there is only a summer league for low-ceiling college kids,
The old wooden grandstand,
Still standing out of some implausible stubbornness
(Last living World War One veteran,
Some local lifer will invariably say, cackling and spitting
Though their ranks thinned each year
By the siren song of trailer parks in Orlando and hip fractures)
Now dotted with a group of locals,
Quirky minor-league aficionados and a cluster of area scouts,
Who, on the odd occasion of something noteworthy on the field,
Will make a show of pulling out a stopwatch or radar gun
(Though they are aware they are here
With the lowest-common-denominator expectations,
Looking for organizational types,
Middle relievers and fifth outfielders to fill out rosters)
But most of the time, they simply huddle together
Talk quietly,speaking in inaudible tones
The words of some dead and inscrutable language.

their larva, maggots                
they are caught by outfielders
a treat for frogs, flies