Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Chasing the Rabbit Ball

The deep need
to point the toe toward the plate,
releasing the pitch toward the pit,
as I consider the fine art
of making surreal threads
for baseballs, scuffing the stuff,
making it real and raw,
a finger food for the not so famous,
keeping the dead ball down,
chastising the ancestors of Curt Flood,
those all diamond decked out
in silver and gold necklaces,
glittering chains telegraphed
for the coming of screw balls,
superstitious as hell,
awaking to the heavenly bells of spring,
where promise is a red bird on a wing ...

Hear the crowd ... Hear it sing!

All you free agents of the mind:
You know I'm no perfectionist
of any kind, only a man struck
by lightning twice
in the minor league
of my own mind,
a simple child ticketed thrice
on opening day


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