I Just Want to Thank Jesus For ...

Thinking outside the foul pole

of the Taoist physics of baseball,

outside the ever-expanding slice of pi,

outside the statistical analysis

of all the big names gone cold

in late spring, for the Great Nine

split into four-point-five pointed stars,

for numbers becoming no Boy Scout,

believe you, me ...

Billy Beane chased the ghost

out of the machine dream

when the Bronx Bombers

flew overhead and the mobbed bosses

stole it all back: the rivers, the streams,

the automated stacks of bats sponsored by

the volcanic flows of the sick and dying

in the psychological steam so bad

we could barely scream out a defiant

chorus of "Sweet Caroline" ...

And so the baseball heart, hit out of the park,

flew out of me, as I flew out ... And then the Capistranos

of consistency on the mound raised a fist in the air

thanking Jesus, who, when he appeared

suddenly, on command, in center field,

hit the ground, mortal, in terror, naked, alone,

hurting bad, scared and mad at the scene

of so many ballplayers, thanking God

for the home runs hit in his name,

as if he cared ...

This pitch, sponsored by Jesus ...

This spit, sponsored by Satan ...

This Moneyball sponsored by ...

This and this and this

on the scored and board

of the Lord, Oh Jesus,

Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus ...