"pinged" poems - Hello Poetry

And they cast the man as the one who gets brought down by dogs. When he met the director, the man said, "I'm the son of a veterinarian." "I guess we should give you a speaking part." So in the snow, behind the pines, with three cameras on him, the man was brought down by dogs, and instead of falling silently, he was allowed to shout "no." Despite the open air, his call was shrill. Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice pinged as if encased in metal. The director, unnerved, instructed the man to do the scene again. "Try shouting 'why.' " The man's cap was off. Snow flew from the strands of his hair. A dog chewed on his forearm. And he said, "Why." Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice fell flat, muffled-- not by limb, not by nature, but as if covered by a blanket of wool, like a child playing ghost in a winter living room. The director took the man aside. "What's wrong?" The man had never seen a person die. He'd never even seen a dog die, although he'd seen plenty arranged in violence shortly thereafter. "Nothing," the man said. "Die naturally this time." "Alright." On the third take, one of the dogs tore into his cheek. The puncture was quick, clean. "I want to die," the man said, "but not like this." "Louder," the director said. "I want to die but not like this." "What was that?" "I want to die but not like this." The dogs lapped at his blood. One of the camera men came in close. The man went limp, hoping it would end the take.

0

Dec 11, 2013

Dec 11, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC

jj-hutton

In Production

And they cast the man as the one who gets brought down by dogs. When he met the director, the man said, "I'm the son of a veterinarian." "I guess we should give you a speaking part." So in the snow, behind the pines, with three cameras on him, the man was brought down by dogs, and instead of falling silently, he was allowed to shout "no." Despite the open air, his call was shrill. Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice pinged as if encased in metal. The director, unnerved, instructed the man to do the scene again. "Try shouting 'why.' " The man's cap was off. Snow flew from the strands of his hair. A dog chewed on his forearm. And he said, "Why." Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice fell flat, muffled-- not by limb, not by nature, but as if covered by a blanket of wool, like a child playing ghost in a winter living room. The director took the man aside. "What's wrong?" The man had never seen a person die. He'd never even seen a dog die, although he'd seen plenty arranged in violence shortly thereafter. "Nothing," the man said. "Die naturally this time." "Alright." On the third take, one of the dogs tore into his cheek. The puncture was quick, clean. "I want to die," the man said, "but not like this." "Louder," the director said. "I want to die but not like this." "What was that?" "I want to die but not like this." The dogs lapped at his blood. One of the camera men came in close. The man went limp, hoping it would end the take.

43

I texted you, You Whatsapped back. I posted on your Wall, You pinged me on GTalk. I pinged back on GTalk, You Vibered me. I buzzed you on Lync, You mailed me on Yahoo. I messaged you on FB, You shared a post on G+. I messaged you on Linked In, You sent a talking parrot on Farmville. Seriously? I invited you to an Outlook meeting, You invited me to your Picasa album. I pinned an interest, You YouTubed yours. I wrote this blog post while you Tweeted. It's time to throw away this smartphone and call home. If you don't answer, I'll see your light on, cross the street and knock on your door.

0

Jun 10, 2014

Jun 10, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC

akshatha-hegde

Exacting Smartness

I texted you, You Whatsapped back. I posted on your Wall, You pinged me on GTalk. I pinged back on GTalk, You Vibered me. I buzzed you on Lync, You mailed me on Yahoo. I messaged you on FB, You shared a post on G+. I messaged you on Linked In, You sent a talking parrot on Farmville. Seriously? I invited you to an Outlook meeting, You invited me to your Picasa album. I pinned an interest, You YouTubed yours. I wrote this blog post while you Tweeted. It's time to throw away this smartphone and call home. If you don't answer, I'll see your light on, cross the street and knock on your door.

26

Oh shall we play space men today and build a rocket Ted we need two suits some gloves and boots and helmets for our head A packing crate stood tall and straight dad's funnel placed on top three books so thin each one a fin and Mommies broken mop A beanbag chair we two can share and buttons we can push some sandwiches and light switches and cans of Orange crush Some dials and springs and other things we found in daddies shed now that looks neat so take a seat and start the countdown Ted We watched the stars that once so far where now within our grip Count ten to one ignition on Blast off in rocket ship The silver moon would greet us soon as upward we both sped through clouds of white to black of night just me and mister Ted The rocket turned as thrusters burned as we altered our course for here you see the gravity Had very little force We journeyed forth toward the north by meteor and star as comets whizzed and pinged and fizzed and flew both near and far We passed the plough and saw a cow jump clean over the moon then stations manned prepared to land beside a giant dune Beneath our feet a silver sheet of fallen stars and sand and as we two took in the view Ted held me by the hand The solar breeze blew round our knees and tickled as it passed time now to go yes Ted I know this day has gone so fast seated inside we watched the tide So slowly ebb and flow then 10 to 1 zero and gone we raced the mornings glow home safe and sound we kissed the ground and ran in for our tea I turned to Ted and softly said the moon just winked at me What shall we be next time said he cowboys or maybe kings I do not know I whispered low let's see what morning brings

0

Oct 9, 2013

Oct 9, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC

soul-in-torment

Terrestial Ted

Oh shall we play space men today and build a rocket Ted we need two suits some gloves and boots and helmets for our head A packing crate stood tall and straight dad's funnel placed on top three books so thin each one a fin and Mommies broken mop A beanbag chair we two can share and buttons we can push some sandwiches and light switches and cans of Orange crush Some dials and springs and other things we found in daddies shed now that looks neat so take a seat and start the countdown Ted We watched the stars that once so far where now within our grip Count ten to one ignition on Blast off in rocket ship The silver moon would greet us soon as upward we both sped through clouds of white to black of night just me and mister Ted The rocket turned as thrusters burned as we altered our course for here you see the gravity Had very little force We journeyed forth toward the north by meteor and star as comets whizzed and pinged and fizzed and flew both near and far We passed the plough and saw a cow jump clean over the moon then stations manned prepared to land beside a giant dune Beneath our feet a silver sheet of fallen stars and sand and as we two took in the view Ted held me by the hand The solar breeze blew round our knees and tickled as it passed time now to go yes Ted I know this day has gone so fast seated inside we watched the tide So slowly ebb and flow then 10 to 1 zero and gone we raced the mornings glow home safe and sound we kissed the ground and ran in for our tea I turned to Ted and softly said the moon just winked at me What shall we be next time said he cowboys or maybe kings I do not know I whispered low let's see what morning brings

56

I hardly journey there anymore. Those ruins are far and distant, Far and distant, and black and grey. Relics are moon rocks in the frozen landscape. The grand façade of the pantheon has Crumbled into sand. I could crush it all into Dust beneath my heel. The mind itself is an eye, a camera obscura, Lit not by the moon— That old pinged marble— Over whose surface I skim in my tiny submarine. The lunar scene fills my vision, Film noir. I spy the cold garden. In the heart of it Gleams the litter of my chicken bones. My cowardice the wicked reminder, Consequence of the role I performed For the impassive audience. I underwent A sea change in the theatre of their minds. On some other plane Holy voyeurs peer through spyglass, Seeking to undress the celestial paramour. Such delicious vacancy— **** statue in an arena of eyes, Gristle picked clean by vultures. The air is ****** dry. Cold stars Abound in the black sky. Smeared ink the lingering impression, Smudged thumbprint.

0

Nov 15, 2019

Nov 15, 2019 at 8:32 PM UTC

erin-suurkoivu

The Ruins

I hardly journey there anymore. Those ruins are far and distant, Far and distant, and black and grey. Relics are moon rocks in the frozen landscape. The grand façade of the pantheon has Crumbled into sand. I could crush it all into Dust beneath my heel. The mind itself is an eye, a camera obscura, Lit not by the moon— That old pinged marble— Over whose surface I skim in my tiny submarine. The lunar scene fills my vision, Film noir. I spy the cold garden. In the heart of it Gleams the litter of my chicken bones. My cowardice the wicked reminder, Consequence of the role I performed For the impassive audience. I underwent A sea change in the theatre of their minds. On some other plane Holy voyeurs peer through spyglass, Seeking to undress the celestial paramour. Such delicious vacancy— **** statue in an arena of eyes, Gristle picked clean by vultures. The air is ****** dry. Cold stars Abound in the black sky. Smeared ink the lingering impression, Smudged thumbprint.

29

in a downpour of rain. the world fades away in a flash of white. the rain slants and drizzles, Beginning to fill the gaps of potholes. And crooked cracks left empty against the pavement. the drivers behind the wheels of their cars turn their windshield wipers on high, to no avail. Their wipers constantly beaded down, covered white. Fading away. the downpour is too heavy. the rain is too heavy. It's thuds bead down against the metal car roofs. my heart too sways in the wind. Pinged and drenched, caught in the downpour of how your heart's whispers have turned to screams. rain-soaked tears unveiled to fill the gaps of all things missing. including the distance between you and I. Soon, I too will errupt and overflow. Fading away in a flash of white

0

Jul 9, 2024

Jul 9, 2024 at 6:54 PM UTC

kewayne-wadley

Downpour

in a downpour of rain. the world fades away in a flash of white. the rain slants and drizzles, Beginning to fill the gaps of potholes. And crooked cracks left empty against the pavement. the drivers behind the wheels of their cars turn their windshield wipers on high, to no avail. Their wipers constantly beaded down, covered white. Fading away. the downpour is too heavy. the rain is too heavy. It's thuds bead down against the metal car roofs. my heart too sways in the wind. Pinged and drenched, caught in the downpour of how your heart's whispers have turned to screams. rain-soaked tears unveiled to fill the gaps of all things missing. including the distance between you and I. Soon, I too will errupt and overflow. Fading away in a flash of white

27

Feeling like the sea, a single wave blushing blue, gathering momentum only to fall flat on my face, broken and soggy to start all over again. Feel the beach with my hands, scrabble at the sand like a dog ready to bury a bone, but am pinged back in as an elastic band. Why does that happen and who is to blame?

0

Apr 27, 2014

Apr 27, 2014 at 4:48 PM UTC

reece-aj-chambers

Elastic

Feeling like the sea, a single wave blushing blue, gathering momentum only to fall flat on my face, broken and soggy to start all over again. Feel the beach with my hands, scrabble at the sand like a dog ready to bury a bone, but am pinged back in as an elastic band. Why does that happen and who is to blame?

18

If butterflies were piano keys, when played they would create a sound so faint and beautiful that it would resonate within your eardrums for a thousand years. The music fabricated from the monarchs would take you back, way back to the years where your grandmothers windchime that hung from her old rickety porch pinged and chinged playfully in the wind. The music from the Swallowtails would sound like the rustic countryside plains, filled with rustling waves of weeds that you call flowers because they are just to pretty to be called weeds. The music played from this piano is not just beautiful however. These tunes come with a cost. For each key pressed on the mosaic of keys that symmetrically flow down the keyboard takes the life of the butterfly used to bring forth the sound and the memory. Not only do you hear the song, the memory, you hear the crunch of nature’s thorax. The crushed and crumbling thoraxes play a song too. Not beautiful, but melancholy. Like the whisper of a flower that will never bloom for the morning sun again. A faint light that leads unto eternal darkness and into a world where no butterflies soar through the sky. All because you played the piano who’s keys were made of butterfly wings.

0

Nov 3, 2017

Nov 3, 2017 at 4:49 PM UTC

Greb

If Butterflies were piano keys

If butterflies were piano keys, when played they would create a sound so faint and beautiful that it would resonate within your eardrums for a thousand years. The music fabricated from the monarchs would take you back, way back to the years where your grandmothers windchime that hung from her old rickety porch pinged and chinged playfully in the wind. The music from the Swallowtails would sound like the rustic countryside plains, filled with rustling waves of weeds that you call flowers because they are just to pretty to be called weeds. The music played from this piano is not just beautiful however. These tunes come with a cost. For each key pressed on the mosaic of keys that symmetrically flow down the keyboard takes the life of the butterfly used to bring forth the sound and the memory. Not only do you hear the song, the memory, you hear the crunch of nature’s thorax. The crushed and crumbling thoraxes play a song too. Not beautiful, but melancholy. Like the whisper of a flower that will never bloom for the morning sun again. A faint light that leads unto eternal darkness and into a world where no butterflies soar through the sky. All because you played the piano who’s keys were made of butterfly wings.

12

just like that the pretty girl in my dreams disappeared freed my sheets to let them suffocate as usual and i stayed there facing the ceiling with cymbals’ collisions under my pillow and for a haze i stayed still and subsisting on spit and spider mites like the sea wasn’t swallowing anything till i was ninety percent salt and crystallized breathing out dusty alphabet soup into the aether like anyone with a disdain for capital letters my circle sends its love along with mutual virtue parasitism in distress beacons pinged through a dead battery and twitching fingers and you know it’s for the best no falling out of bed or breakfasts till the oasis is complete under construction in the dusty pillowcase i call home down the street from the abandoned asylum where i learned mouth too dry and lungs too sharp a shriveled cactus with paper spines

0

Jan 26, 2025

Jan 26, 2025 at 10:33 AM UTC

blanketings

paper spines

just like that the pretty girl in my dreams disappeared freed my sheets to let them suffocate as usual and i stayed there facing the ceiling with cymbals’ collisions under my pillow and for a haze i stayed still and subsisting on spit and spider mites like the sea wasn’t swallowing anything till i was ninety percent salt and crystallized breathing out dusty alphabet soup into the aether like anyone with a disdain for capital letters my circle sends its love along with mutual virtue parasitism in distress beacons pinged through a dead battery and twitching fingers and you know it’s for the best no falling out of bed or breakfasts till the oasis is complete under construction in the dusty pillowcase i call home down the street from the abandoned asylum where i learned mouth too dry and lungs too sharp a shriveled cactus with paper spines

18

Why is it so strange to me. We haven't talked in years, we weren't lifelong friends. We usually just sent messages electronically. Nothing but ill-fitted pioneers of electronic pen-pal practice. I didn't know what to make of you. I mean how much could our inclination to keep up the conversation be attributed to real intellectual thought. "Intellectual thought" I hate when I boil things down to things like that. So pretentious and blue-cold. But nonetheless we talked for years intermediately. Maybe it was something of a comfort, maybe it was attraction, maybe something in a grey area between. I know you had some family troubles. I know you'd yell at me for drinking, and I wondered why. I heard once your father was in jail for drunkenly running over a girl. I still don't know if it's true, and I'm sorry if I subconsciously treated you as if it was and never asked to talk about it. I was bad at those things. I know we never talked about your marriage. I never even knew if it officially had gone through, or when you had broken up, or even if you had divorced. I don't know if I wanted to know, it seemed like you didn't want to tell. You did tell me you started smoking. I was younger and more keen to be excited upon hearing someone else I knew enjoyed a bowl. We always made plans to smoke together but I was always to tangled in my high school relationship. I didn't know you'd get too relaxed with substances. Or at least I don't remember thinking of it. I don't even remember thinking of you anytime recently. Not exactly the thing one would expect to read, but it's true. I was as unready as I could have been when I was told you had passed away. I knew snow had fallen and hoped a fatal crash wasn't your goodbye. With a little help of our once linking electronics, that had pinged our little bits of data to and fro in the atmosphere and into each other's hands, I found out you had been struggling with addiction. I felt weirdly ashamed for not having known. I'm not the best friend, I'm not the partner, or the boss. There's no logical reason I should have caught the clues or been observing at all. Yet an insistent feeling that I should have at least known what you were going through ticked in my head. I remember feeling so strange when you had married, because you had said you wanted to marry me. I had never taken the statement seriously, but it still holds me in disbelief, much more now. Maybe it's that in the core of it all you wanted a future. I'm sorry you overdosed. I'm sorry I can't write to you any more.

0

Dec 9, 2016

Dec 9, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC

MiddleClass

Data for You

Why is it so strange to me. We haven't talked in years, we weren't lifelong friends. We usually just sent messages electronically. Nothing but ill-fitted pioneers of electronic pen-pal practice. I didn't know what to make of you. I mean how much could our inclination to keep up the conversation be attributed to real intellectual thought. "Intellectual thought" I hate when I boil things down to things like that. So pretentious and blue-cold. But nonetheless we talked for years intermediately. Maybe it was something of a comfort, maybe it was attraction, maybe something in a grey area between. I know you had some family troubles. I know you'd yell at me for drinking, and I wondered why. I heard once your father was in jail for drunkenly running over a girl. I still don't know if it's true, and I'm sorry if I subconsciously treated you as if it was and never asked to talk about it. I was bad at those things. I know we never talked about your marriage. I never even knew if it officially had gone through, or when you had broken up, or even if you had divorced. I don't know if I wanted to know, it seemed like you didn't want to tell. You did tell me you started smoking. I was younger and more keen to be excited upon hearing someone else I knew enjoyed a bowl. We always made plans to smoke together but I was always to tangled in my high school relationship. I didn't know you'd get too relaxed with substances. Or at least I don't remember thinking of it. I don't even remember thinking of you anytime recently. Not exactly the thing one would expect to read, but it's true. I was as unready as I could have been when I was told you had passed away. I knew snow had fallen and hoped a fatal crash wasn't your goodbye. With a little help of our once linking electronics, that had pinged our little bits of data to and fro in the atmosphere and into each other's hands, I found out you had been struggling with addiction. I felt weirdly ashamed for not having known. I'm not the best friend, I'm not the partner, or the boss. There's no logical reason I should have caught the clues or been observing at all. Yet an insistent feeling that I should have at least known what you were going through ticked in my head. I remember feeling so strange when you had married, because you had said you wanted to marry me. I had never taken the statement seriously, but it still holds me in disbelief, much more now. Maybe it's that in the core of it all you wanted a future. I'm sorry you overdosed. I'm sorry I can't write to you any more.

5

I noodled my childhood, Glued it on some diary Spooks overflowed And came out suddenly. With monarchic wings, And petal eyes Gazed back, and pinged. I succumbed twice. "Whatever you wrote is a lie" Confronted one roaring voice It disappeared in pages again I started to feel calm, at ease. I gave it another shot, recalled, I had seen him somewhere before, 'Did we meet in childhood?' Question banged on my door Of course, "No". I never met him before, How can I forget, I never had a childhood!

0

Jan 31, 2019

Jan 31, 2019 at 11:06 AM UTC

Galaxy_22

CHILDHOOD

I noodled my childhood, Glued it on some diary Spooks overflowed And came out suddenly. With monarchic wings, And petal eyes Gazed back, and pinged. I succumbed twice. "Whatever you wrote is a lie" Confronted one roaring voice It disappeared in pages again I started to feel calm, at ease. I gave it another shot, recalled, I had seen him somewhere before, 'Did we meet in childhood?' Question banged on my door Of course, "No". I never met him before, How can I forget, I never had a childhood!

20

He wore a red jumper, a warning to me I feared his slapping hand when I was a kid unhappy with himself, would lash out at the world I was always in the way of his harsh physical word Frustrated by his endeavour, control was not his thing he'd lose it washing cars or when the lawn mower pinged anger inside his soul, meant there was no peace sadness in his eyes, my pity brought out the beast He was very clever, and on good days we had fun always treading eggshells of the terror that would come weary and alone I planned to escape his wrath as soon as I was able I would walk a prettier path Abusive life continued and I feared my own shadow violence dominated my life, no loving I'd been shown the day I left the home was the day I had revenge peace descending on my life, no longer had to fend Anger left behind for others to now deal no more trembling at the table at every meal looking back I learned to love instead of hate but for my father, it is all too late He died with no regrets, he proudly said thinking only of himself and his selfish head giving wasn't something he was ever taught unfortunately his son, in violence is now caught

0

Jun 8, 2015

Jun 8, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC

dollys-poems

The Circle Of Life

He wore a red jumper, a warning to me I feared his slapping hand when I was a kid unhappy with himself, would lash out at the world I was always in the way of his harsh physical word Frustrated by his endeavour, control was not his thing he'd lose it washing cars or when the lawn mower pinged anger inside his soul, meant there was no peace sadness in his eyes, my pity brought out the beast He was very clever, and on good days we had fun always treading eggshells of the terror that would come weary and alone I planned to escape his wrath as soon as I was able I would walk a prettier path Abusive life continued and I feared my own shadow violence dominated my life, no loving I'd been shown the day I left the home was the day I had revenge peace descending on my life, no longer had to fend Anger left behind for others to now deal no more trembling at the table at every meal looking back I learned to love instead of hate but for my father, it is all too late He died with no regrets, he proudly said thinking only of himself and his selfish head giving wasn't something he was ever taught unfortunately his son, in violence is now caught

24

She pinged him in the morning, excited to relay her dream they had met last night over coffee and whipped cream His smile could not be contained within the mobile screen while just twelve hours had passed he texted her how long it had been The couch looks so depressed pillow flatter than ever before, empty bowls of food lined up in front late night love talks keep eyes sore She did not care about her top and hair, wearing a smile was just enough the excitement of a video call made both look lovely, although rough. They chatted and took it slow having all the time to let love grow and just keep going with the flow.

0

Apr 1, 2020

Apr 1, 2020 at 5:39 AM UTC

sourodeep-chakravarty

Love at the time of Corona

She pinged him in the morning, excited to relay her dream they had met last night over coffee and whipped cream His smile could not be contained within the mobile screen while just twelve hours had passed he texted her how long it had been The couch looks so depressed pillow flatter than ever before, empty bowls of food lined up in front late night love talks keep eyes sore She did not care about her top and hair, wearing a smile was just enough the excitement of a video call made both look lovely, although rough. They chatted and took it slow having all the time to let love grow and just keep going with the flow.

19

Blue screen Red eyes 2am Frowning with smile Looking straight in her eyes As he swipe through her profile Switching app to app To see her latest stride Morning At noon Tired eyes Still she is on mind Follow, friend request or ping, What should he do? To let her know, He too subsist Nervous Courageous Full of Fear Followed, requested and pinged too Felt as a proposal For her to choose Between him and the other guys who send her posts too Scrolling Waiting Updating Thinking, he is ignored He was being okay But Phone chimed Notifying “one new request”. Happiness Shaking breaths Fear of uncertainness As he opened, Its her request He accepted as soon as he can Showing his keenness Thinking to makes his move Without caring if its too soon Likes Comments Mutual friends All know what it meant He thought Hi, hello or what up? Before, he asks “If she mind being on her what’s app?” Stressed Hope-full Full of expectations “Hey, how you doing?” He texted In seconds Phone chimed It notified, she “posted a new picture” He instantly commented and liked Waiting for her to reply Days passed Likes, comments, content shared But she didn’t replied How she was? And He thought He was someone more Another night Red eyes 2am And one more profile.

0

Sep 2, 2020

Sep 2, 2020 at 12:26 AM UTC

Pen_and_Paper

2 am: love

Blue screen Red eyes 2am Frowning with smile Looking straight in her eyes As he swipe through her profile Switching app to app To see her latest stride Morning At noon Tired eyes Still she is on mind Follow, friend request or ping, What should he do? To let her know, He too subsist Nervous Courageous Full of Fear Followed, requested and pinged too Felt as a proposal For her to choose Between him and the other guys who send her posts too Scrolling Waiting Updating Thinking, he is ignored He was being okay But Phone chimed Notifying “one new request”. Happiness Shaking breaths Fear of uncertainness As he opened, Its her request He accepted as soon as he can Showing his keenness Thinking to makes his move Without caring if its too soon Likes Comments Mutual friends All know what it meant He thought Hi, hello or what up? Before, he asks “If she mind being on her what’s app?” Stressed Hope-full Full of expectations “Hey, how you doing?” He texted In seconds Phone chimed It notified, she “posted a new picture” He instantly commented and liked Waiting for her to reply Days passed Likes, comments, content shared But she didn’t replied How she was? And He thought He was someone more Another night Red eyes 2am And one more profile.

66

All in, do nothing, or do this line by line imagine-ing, the verb behind what if, the quest ion, sparking attention at the mention cognosis troubler, bull in a china shop, bringer of missile launching knowledge to fight with a fuzzy visioned ****** breed of Andre stature, pinged, 'im. Right between the eyes... imagine doing that on the nineth at Pebble Beach, with a nine iron, poised to smack a pink and white Ping classic purchased on Ebay for six bucks. -- can't get that picture, -- never had the feeling of whacking ball after ball into the desert, for the helluvit... if you missed that you must have a metaphor of your own, for aiming at nothing, and hitting dead center every time.

0

Apr 19, 2020

Apr 19, 2020 at 4:20 PM UTC

kenpepiton

I never played golf

All in, do nothing, or do this line by line imagine-ing, the verb behind what if, the quest ion, sparking attention at the mention cognosis troubler, bull in a china shop, bringer of missile launching knowledge to fight with a fuzzy visioned ****** breed of Andre stature, pinged, 'im. Right between the eyes... imagine doing that on the nineth at Pebble Beach, with a nine iron, poised to smack a pink and white Ping classic purchased on Ebay for six bucks. -- can't get that picture, -- never had the feeling of whacking ball after ball into the desert, for the helluvit... if you missed that you must have a metaphor of your own, for aiming at nothing, and hitting dead center every time.

15