Practice

How many brain-dead

baseball diamond drills

do we need to run, rookie?

Do we need to purchase

for you an insurance policy

to protect you against

the sorcery of blurring

curves, the chin music

of mommie balls

coming in fast?

Spring training

is the hope-forming time

to scrunch scar tissue,

to test aches subtracted

from the totem death-dance

of old brown city street snow,

of writer's block shaped

into three white bases,

to take into our nostrils

the sweet fragance of March

And after the vets have tapped

the buzzing fridge of free cokes,

turning termimnal pains

into mere dietary disease,

we must line up trainer's tape

to meet and meet together

at the left-field foul pole

to intensify the muscle memories,

the heated up PFP, PFP, PFP ...

the endless ritual

of pitcher-to-first,

pitcher taking the lob,

spiking the bag

This is how we practice

each thin temporal moment,

experience to ascribe antidotes

for thoughtlessness into decisions

because only repitition can influence

our grace before ownership's

remote tentatcled lens

so if we can make it to October,

if we get lucky,

maybe you'll thank me

So don't be a loud-mouthed rook

wasted for higher purposes

beyond the reasoning of mere mortals

Don't talk back to me!

Don't think to much!

It's bad for everyone concerned

Don't carouse with wild women

sent to stand on your bases

and don't talk money with me

We pay you plenty

and candy comes after

Because I knew John McGraw

Who fussed himself silly

Made teammates enemies

But they played great

Despite his tyrannical self:

Gawd how I loved his glare,

like Joe Torrie's blank stare;

a poker face almost saying, man,

I loathe baseball, I wanna go home

I heard stories about such skips:

See, this pitcher, this catcher,

they hate each other, so they throw

harder and harder to each other

and surely at some point

there's got to be a limit,

a point where their palms

turn red, maybe even bleed

until all innings end, unforgiven

By the time they get back

to the bench they are screaming

at each other so ol' skipper

comes over, spits, and says,

"Okay boys, you go back

into your pretty clubhouse

and have at it. May the worst

man win. I'll warm up Johnson

and Mack, get the equipment on."

So the two embattlers

go behind closed doors

and end up killing each other

The general manager calls

new recruits up from Triple-A

to replace them both:

Everybody wins

Taking Stock of Bonds

Ten warm-up pitches

ascend ten Dante-esque

levels up the screen

behind home plate

and Barry Bonds

took a look

and his mega-salary

was mistaken for humble

and human; his life as pure ego

was at stake, make no mistake

He waved to manager Don Baylor

in the opposition dugout

in the sunny half-joke

in spring training in the desert:

hard to reason with the risk

of certain beaning

as limousine Barry

goes up to the plate, the pitch,

and Bonds does straight-into-the-air time

and lands back down to do the earth dance,

an element of fear enhanced, gets up

and his earring shines from some light

beamed from far up in the sky

since, with nobody on, there are only

so many points a ball can be thrown

through the atmosphere as the next pitch

was down the middle of the strike zone

After Bonds had swung it landed near

a western wear store west of Apache Junction:

So much for the element of surprise

Later that day at the ballpark, frankly,

Barry Bonds almost trampled my son

trying to get his autograph

and my kid said, What a jerk!

It made me so proud

My Cup of Coffee in the Majors

A shadow passes on opening day

as the umpire screens the views

of new scores coming in,

old scores settled long ago,

as the heartbeat of the homeland

counts the day's receipts

checking for signs of mischief,

as angry Aztec gods

make a point, hiring lawyers

for copyright violation,

as spring birds bunt,

turning snow into drops

of sugary sweet wine,

as the ball comes down

the third base line

with just enough gust

to push the ball foul

as ice cold beer sales

flow into the face

of forever: O sure,

I had a cup in Euphoria

but didn't stick for the Stixx

and the banks were all closed

at sunset and I couldn't

get a grip and the previous

night's bright lights

could have been a trick