I heard a rumor he punched an Astros fan.
I heard a rumor he was beefing with said Astros fan
the whole game, sad Astros fan
poured beer all over mad Dodgers fan
before the long wait to
see
Read MoreWith their high flying, I suppose it’s not a bad
nickname for a baseball team. Once, I had an experience
with a certain Satélite. But it wasn’t high flying.
High driving maybe. Intoxicated by the bus driver’s
Read MoreDodgeball was called War. We played the game so happily, With such violence, black eyes, Sprained fingers and wrists, A ball snapped my head back And my body followed.
Read MoreWe drink from a wide-mouthed bottle, sugar and citrus painting our lips and our breath clementine. Amani dribbles an orange basketball, the tin ring of rubber and air echoing across the blacktop—tar and gravel: feel the vibrations running through the ground and into him like sunlight.
Read MoreShe leans against that long swoop of metal. A small town in Wisconsin with a public court lit after dark. I tell her that this is not like home. She lets the ball fall from the crook of her wrist. It bounces itself into a kind of drumroll, a decrescendo of higher pitched notes that bleed into one another while I taste the salt of sweat and summer
Read MoreWe have a predilection to abuse
antidepressants we are both tornadoes
of trailer trash who learned to skate
a bottle of bleach makes us lighter
to the cameras, the hand-sequined
leotard says frosting and cupcake
Read MoreThis is how we live our lives
fitting in errands between
snowfalls: Wednesday morning,
Friday night, Saturday night
again.
Read MoreMy legs ungodly sore, stiff in plastic manacles,
face blown raw by wind, snot frozen,
I was done skiing,
but couldn’t sell that to my father
who had bought the lift ticket,
spent the day training me,
urged me just once more up the lift.
Read MoreSome see a long coarse braid
in its place between shoulder blades.
I see a man. Slung over in a rusty truck,
asleep against the back seat,
after he whispered for whiskey bright
the night before.
Read MorePitcher: All things have a source:
the cold water of the Mississippi
begins quietly under the pines and birch
where a small stream speaks
its first words: Rock. Cloud.
Read MoreHer enormous wings cover us all
when she drifts in over the baseball field
like a storm cloud. She means well, comes often;
this year she has a crush on the pitching staff.
Read More