Opening Day

For some,
it means baseball -
as if baseball
were a good thing.

For me,
it means that it’s not
football season,
and soon,
it will no longer be
hockey season
or basketball season.

*     *     *     *     *

Opening day means
that baseball fans will now start to
come out in droves on game night
to clog the expressways during rush hour,
adding a half hour to everyone’s commute,
causing a mother to miss the
birth of her first son
via surrogate,
causing a father to miss his daughter’s dance recital,
leaving the poor young girl feeling betrayed and empty -
an emptiness she will attempt to fill by
covering her body with tattoos and dating

And these baseball-lovers, the driving force
behind the break-up of the American family,
will have the unmitigated gall to
wear their baseball hats,
the audacity to brandish their baseball decals
and their baseball bumper stickers,
and fly their baseball window pennants,
and as you sit behind them,
these people, all listening to the same
pre-game show blaring from their radios,
you wonder where it all went wrong -
how there could be so many people
who would not only voluntarily
attend a baseball game but
actually PAY MONEY for that “privilege?”

And these great crowds of drivers,
will push traffic to Jam-factor 10,
and will bring all traffic to a total and complete halt,
and by doing so will delay impede ambulances off on urgent calls
to and from those at deaths door,
to rescue the man who is valiantly clinging to life
after a myocardial infarction,
the woman who has suffered
a hemorrhagic stroke,
the freak who has shoved a red
Xfinity Triple-Play stress ball
deep up his ass which has had the effect of
pushing up the first two already in there
far beyond the point of retrieval without medical intervention,
and many a good man or woman
or freak of the triple stress ball rectal implantation ilk
will be lost because of baseball.

*     *     *     *     *

And opening day means that the heat will come,
and with the heat will come the drought,
and with the drought will come the famine and the
rampant and uncontrollable wildfires,
and with the rampant and uncontrollable wildfires
will come great conflagrations
spreading out across the plains,
spreading down across the hills of California,
engulfing homes,
engulfing food trucks,
engulfing homemade deer hunting shacks,
and those lucky animals that are not engulfed
by these the great fires
will surely die of thirst in the drought
or starvation in the famine.

*     *     *     *     *

And with opening day will come the mosquitos,
and with the mosquitos the crickets,
and with the crickets the frogs and toads,
and with frogs and toads will come the horse flies,
and with the horse flies the man-eating raccoons,
and with the man-eating raccoons the
the fleas of the man-eating raccoon,
and with the fleas of the man-eating racoon
the plague carried by, and unique to,
the flea of the man-eating raccoon,
and many a good man and woman,
and many an innocent child will die from
the plague emanating from the first pitch
in the Majors.

*     *     *     *     *

And opening day means
the foul stench of death
will rise up from the subways,
will rise up from the dumpsters,
will rise up in the creeks,
will rise up from the county sewage treatment plant,
will rise up in the places that smell,
like death in normal times
but now smell even more deathly
due to the fact that baseball is now being played,
and death and pestilence will hang
over the land
until NFL training camps open
the last week of July.

*     *     *     *     *

And opening day means that children,
smart children, intelligent children,
children who though merely 8,9,10 years old
have the capacity to cure the diseases that have stumped
our so-called finest minds for decades
if only these precocious, pint-sized Jonas Salks were given
full and complete access to a major medical research facility,
these children, rather than spending their summers curing cancer
or writing precocious letters to the director of the
Duke Medical Center beginning with the lines
“I read your colleague’s recent article in
The New England Journal of Medicine
and the utter paucity of insight, imagination and results
makes me want to rent my lab garments over what the peer review
system has come to in that little rag.
My name is Jimmy Wilson,
and I am here to save your institution from its continuing barbarity
in their field of Intracranial Stenosis…”
these children,
the potential saviors of our race,
will NOT be writing such letters.
They will be brainwashed by an
insidious introduction to “the thinking man’s sport”
so-named because there is obviously
so much empty space
where nothing happens
one can only think
“why am I watching this?”
These geniuses, these children who would
become the Babe Ruths, the Willie Mays,
the Pete Roses, the Lenny Dykstras,
the Jose Cansecos, the Mark MacQuires,
of their respective scientific fields
will be told to stand in the outfield
and shag some flies
or head out to short and take some grounders
or stand at home plate for some BP
and when game time comes,
these children,
these children who haven’t yet succumbed
to the drought or the famines or the wildfires or the plague,
the majority of them will die from sheer boredom,
dropping dead right there on the spot,
generally in the 4th, 5th or 6th innings.
The lucky ones, the ones with an instinct to survive,
these children will simply throw off their gloves
and turn to the outfield fence with a vacant stare
and begin walking towards it,
and despite the pleas from parents and coaches
and umpires,
will hop the fence
and continue walking
and begin a lifetime of wandering
trying to get as far from baseball as possible -
and they will never be heard from again.

And parents who in their heart
are football fans
or hockey fans
or basketball fans
and knew that signing their
son or daughter up for little league
rather than let them spend all available free time
doing important scientific research
in makeshift labs in their basement,
complete with homemade centrifuges
cobbled together with parts from
old lawn mowers and re-gifted cuisinarts,
these bereaved parents will go to
the league commissioner
and scream at him, plead with him
as if he could make them come back
“Why? Why did we sign him up?
Because it was the right thing to do?
We thought it was the right thing to do.”
And they will look into his eyes imploringly,
as if he could absolve them of their guilt.
“It was the right thing to do? Right?
Please tell us it was the right thing to do
Please. Please. Please.”
And both parents will break down in tears,
laying their heads on either
of his shoulders, sobbing violently,
and the commissioner can only
pat their heads and say,
“That’s OK. You did the right thing.
This isn’t the first time this has happened -
and it won’t be the last.”
And tears will well up in his eyes
as he gazes at the flagpole in left center
near the spot where all three of
his own sons took off on the same journey
and disappeared -
never to be heard from again.

*     *     *     *     *

opening day.
For some, it means
baseball -
as if baseball were
a good thing.

For me it means
baseball -
and that is the obvious problem.

When Vito Corleone Goes Back to Corleone

When Vito Corleone goes back to Corleone
to kill Don Francesco
I’ll give you $1,000 for every Italian-American,
no matter how devoted to Catholic dogma –
no matter how many times he has railed against
portrayals of Italian-Americans in popular media
as either mafioso or dull-witted apes in Ed Hardy t-shirts –
$1,000 for each one out there who says to his screen,
"Why are you going back there Vito?"
"Vito, can’t you let sleeping dogs lie?"
"Vito, you’re doing well in America. Why not just let bygones be bygones?"
"No, Vito. Let the old man live! Yes, he had your father killed, and your brother killed, and also your mother, but look at him, he’s just a weak old man? What would killing him prove?"

When Godfather II is played
for the millionth time
on the television in the TV lounge
of MaCaulay Hall, the retirement home
for the order of the Sisters of Mercy,
and Vito leans into Don Francesco and says
"My father was Antonio Andolini – and this is for you,"
and sticks the blade of the knife
into the old man and rips him open,
from his stomach to his throat,
every 90-year-old-nun in the room
who is still capable pumps her wizened fist
and lets a "Yes!" or, perhaps, "Amen!"
escape from her lips.

We rejoice because it is
something we believe down to our marrow,
whether you’ve been raised on
linguine and the Acts of the Apostles,
beef brisket and Abraham,
humus and the Prophet Muhammad,
or whatever -
actions should have consequences,
because without consequences all is permitted,
because lacking the choice to deliver consequences
or to turn the other cheek and live in the present,
there is only helplessness –
and to be helpless is to be tormented.

* * * * *

Fifteen years ago,
an assassin entered our house
to murder my father,
and he has stayed in our house,
doing his long, slow, cruel work
ever since.

He has rubbed out my father
in painstaking detail over the years,
each day erasing a little more
of him from us and us from him.

And on bad days I think to myself –
where is that far-off padrone,
where is that man in the white suit
who sent this murderer to us
that I may aim my gun at him,
that before sticking the blade in
I may lean into him and whisper
"my father was good man –
and didn’t deserve this."

For what good is a son who is helpless to
do anything.

how hard can it be to be someone else’s fault

what happens when we see the same
image over and over again
at first glance
all warnings are
doomsday unboxed
the horrors that break
how hard can it be
to be someone else’s

are you interested in becoming

a together thing
an interesting new detail
a bridge between
the Casino and the Cathedral
only 60 minutes in heavy traffic
and a 2-minute walk from
Europe, Africa, USA East of
sad, hilarious, moving, and deeply insightful
idiocy and hypocrisy of
real, vivid, and interesting
truths about
conjugations of empire
under unidentified conditions

it’s becoming more and more valuable to
pertain to be
highly efficient and effective
at looking bright
drilling down into goo
trying to get better on
other factors such as
inclusion of basic information
pleasing chemistry
quick turnarounds on
turnaround situations
after missed exits
to challenge questions
never asked:
ever wondered why?
you are not sure about Time Zones?
you’re in luck?
what is your clunky?
what is your your conversational alternative?

half the leg-work
is now code for
you can design your own
ful contacts
between the spark and
the powder
learn how to hit
your battleground
without forgetting the ammo again
close every open door
from a panel on the side of house
and bash San Francisco
within short walking distance from
San Francisco
so you are heard
with minimal amplification

belief in
evidence to the contrary
is a truism
more clear
than transmission
in the extreme

such a good many important perfects over there

we build our planets by
hand and in-house
and when they crash
they are rarely heard

oh astrologers
one sees them everywhere
like the fall follows the
like the word hollows
the word

good wood halos won’t you please
we’re doing sainthood on a dare
in ordinary time in orbits blind
such a good many important perfects over there

Lindsay Lohan Dies

between the hours of three
and four A.M.

between rough sheets
that smell of bleach

between L.A. and
New York

between the twice-
yearly visits

between Mrs. Gershenson
and Mrs. D’Onofio (“no R!”)

and her last night out
on earth
lasts forever

between the sun
and the dark star
at the core of all things

this of there must make awake a way

early on

trained first
in skipping
in even spaces

I but one
between you
as not and/or to be

the idea of
hands dropping into flatness
as true salt

one grain
from the sea

would the floor too without sincerity of the rocks?

my allude
my properly small ritual
because it calls
my page
my mind
to the never so trying
from where it raced
asked sentences
nodded go

a rose developed
the hand
that holds
the lens
in an agreed upon land
upon intersecting
to vanish

a lauded attempt

if falling is the end
that said by said by arc
all the better of it
find blind trust mark

but about reason?

the begin pure scene

all the cans
in a bottle

all the narrowed
roses in poems

unified by
the sure intention

enough of
authored rightness

enough of

where a feeling is a question

how it is we dress ourselves

what we await
may not await us

the last time
anyone saw
Jesus Christ
he was floating away

up our fall

that landscape is a fire read
a weather but as feelings part
an often crazy ever each
where each can be an utterance

reversing the apple

must all matter
even somehow

liminal daughter
don’t write in from reason

and of sailing
know that it exists
every morning
surrounded by ice

dropped dead fast fading just long to show

the author fell cold
his book bereft
and old on old
and what was left

but things
these things
behind a door
we’re asked
we’re tasked
to find a place for

the certain suspects sort

I exist like
the face that
more begins its bends
obsessive of unrest
until the sickness

was the formula prosaic non-cognition?

Too much no is failing
to much yes –
a worn out sing.
What can be special, ever-
and not be anything?

believing an abandon

listen water
draw pieces
bend all AM sky
as a star’s fashion
know the fragments denuded
a what may exile flatness
a true friend or poems language

you ensue
all I am and ripples light(‘s)
out of ideas

in voices
by reason
of the details
and of
last pieces

and if around sounding is this want,
the first middle arch, do stare
on that overlooked green and the shaded soils
that give response across voices fair


Know simple form called truly me.
I am in prattle and inability,
the vanished hunt, the suppose I’d be,
the now settled watch of much calamity.
So less is the better of worse worry.
So, less is the better than being we.

electron children rotating fountains as foundations of meaning

deplored classically in today’s world
a position maintained by producing
nearly everywhere
decoupled and the concept idealized
[the Beatles sacrificed on a golden altar, it is not]

while it is the fact that Indians continue to write
the nature of history stripped
of the glamour at the upper ranges of observation
viewed through the many different eyes,
a “classical” crux does not cover
13 ways of regarding a native cloud
or a single cigar machine
selling spoken Sodality Simplicity With over 500,000 Features
drilling doormats
and transpossessing offshore operants

we share a tear in the mistakes of model(s) fencing
the sign marked bear rENTRANCE
the notion that British Canadian Columbians can be developed,
but previous quality of basi concerns
were not mentioned

from the afficianados done double
to Cardinal Wolsey in the shreds of French forces (in the Jeffersonian sense),
“otherwise” means
segments were only loosely related (brusquely and perversely perhaps),
this dramatic transformation of medieval ballet steps is accompanied by
Trumpteters in “America’s jazz Battalion” in Afghanistan
playing that Tommy Dorsey classic
“certain respects in which a woman is difficult to emulate
At an altitude of about 7 miles”
Countless has been reconfigured to 1,901
generating the Medium double-G Hobo model,
the target from the heated center
helping to do your part for you –
turning ALL the ice/snow in the modern tool-kit
into a “God Laser”
(among the limiting factors is the impractical recognition)

small steps may take sits on the beach
the lack of some critical sounds
seems besotted of
some lost configurations and et cetera

in an environment showing which duplicates won’t break
no one wants to look like more reading
a backlog of switches for displaying
one side of says much
of this allowed there,
(including moved around)

How once referred to everything that default place can do
(may still do, in some cases) not restricted to
Sunday editions and new running zones
between the first three cars on
gunning bones,
what I call the “fundamentals” of some of the maneuvers
the long and short of matter

in above examples not given,
where our PhD’s are squarks,
the more common options in the wild assume the existence of the wild
as a multiple locale allowing you to bug Historical Text,
put in some basic few rules for your ssh,
and physically hurl urls for variousmultibytemigratING
plug-and-playEditableText to-and-from file-cousins found in the
right hand corner
second down
on the left-skipping
someObjectLip(s) to play the background scratch like problem echoes
double memory feeds
a puppet patch combined with an engine you might observe
just as if you were dealing with everything required for your own first
reply shell
and perhaps even once expanding such

as translations
the key concepts in need of
logical settings may even be deleted
through available and excessive thrumming
as straightforward alternative name-for-need
advanced thought serpents, dragons, falcons, panthers, et cetera
and the actual serpents, dragons, falcons, panthers, et cetera
used to define

a 3-person no-fragment room we are supposed to imagine
starts with a current day/command
and leads to
electron children rotating fountains as
foundations of meaning

and in time

it was nothing like Seattle
it was nothing like Seattle
it was nothing like Seattle
and in time
and in time

it was nothing like Duluth
it was nothing like Duluth
it was nothing like Duluth
and in time
and in time

it was nothing like Poughkeepsie
it was nothing like Poughkeepsie
it was nothing like Poughkeepsie
and in time
and in time

it was nothing like that place
it was nothing like that place
it was nothing like that place
and in time
and in time

it became part of the sea
it became part of the sea
it became part of the sea
where there is no memory

a euphemism placed on songbird-footing

we are not
your mamba recruits
wearing a national armband
coordinating past dins,
excavators, recognized irrelevancies
anticipated to appreciably enhance
the use of a single, large indiscretion,
versus smaller and more manageable indiscretions,
opticians in a music seizure libertine episode,
and/or deadline interest jackpots

it is a euphemism
placed on songbird-footing
a promised wrist pursuing/utilizing
an evolutionary embrace

we are not
the orators to
clearly lay out
in captive dogma
or their recriminations

Newest Malingerer Sparrow,
reshuffle already,
adapt the butterfly castanets,
the wrinkle of the road,
a showpiece eunuch fueled in song,
fooling with intercom epilogue,
insulator indignities, chandeliers in captivity

(recognize this roadhouse
Sparkler Streetwalker explanations?)

given the many autonomies,
part-time Polyglots,
the federal grammar, clarified by captions
we have consistently made
the laceration needed to stabilize
seething liberation epigrams,
roadblocks as planned or needed due to the superstition of survival

we see our own telescopes
floating far out in space
through the backup telescopes
to the actress/projectionist/wrestler
rest-homes of
butter cassocks,
oven mitts
that spat
in plait
past dimensions’ spar

did we perish in the quilt labyrinth
given past dimes,
activities that twinge under
new-owner topcoats

(in a scripted tragicomedy,
do not ad-lib; simply prologue as planned)

Oh, Old One Eye,
the National Seer,
we are not the matchsticks
at this tinderbox,
or the recounts
of inkwell activities,
that spastic wrenching
needs to be made with other iron taboos
delivered in somersaults

we have highlighted the need for
impresario-issued anti-satellite textures
do-gooder mites, dogcart dilettantes
and activist agonies (carefully monitored)

New Owl,
oracle under a sombrero
or a quiet wren pursuing rivulets,
recordings for restatements,
reliable butchery
dewlap caskets,
opportunities in a murmur of daylight
importunities in a mumble of deliverance,
(“she’s in the back, tacked to the spine”)
the writhe of continuing or
worsening caprice,
adjunct extrapolation,
leave open the telephone,
the evolution bicker, the anticipated Air,
fielding maladies,
plastic daydream jacks

(Is etching tablet actions?
Is privation the start of stabilizing resentments?)

Seedbed Spaniel Stream,
are we not our malfunctions given
in partisan
ab-coordination and agitation
new tootles
clarified by misunderstanding
important quick/s/and
periodical imprecations
need to be made with other involvements

devotee and devotion,
those embraced,
is wreck pursuing wreck
or what laboratory is
needed to adjourn

in parting
these ivories
at this timing
coordination and collation,
cots and scholars
and period impostors,
the adieus of yes-men
and saucepan colonialists,
the acrylic progressive,
from these tablespoon factotums
that foible unfolding,
making delight fall short of tablespoons,
in particle optics to autocracies,
acrostic actuaries,
indented collarbones,
acritical aspiration,
a patient processor,
the National Stray Spade
expendable autobiographies

to adhesive oppressors
new overtures
new toothpastes
new aggregates to
careful collars

in capillaries
with their mistakes
and acronym rescues
already embraced
as the extinguisher to shotguns,
esteem and the rites involved
regarding: costume, scheme, capers, significance,
successful invitations recognized as
the colloquy
of satisfaction

why all this
when all we wanted was
clear capes
for asphalt evictions


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