Westcoast Kickball League

Hello Spandex, Goodbye Dignity. For 4 runs.
Danger Moustache: 11
Jackass: 4

Juicebox’s turquoise spandex pants
like the sea, draw me into him,
and when we speak, he can’t see anything
but my ass
and Jackass score 4 runs, ball moves
beyond him, and Michael,
oh Michael, his novel
a heart full of Jordan,
the river goes.
Floyd’s hug is like
life by my sternum, it’s too much
so I pour beer down his back, I love him,
I watch him, the birthday child
of Summer’s first day,
you know how it goes.
Moustache don’t waver
they stick to the lip
like the greasiest food
the sourest woman.
I am good tonight
as my grandfather sits near.
As a child I wished for a right feeling;
now, Moustache win,
again, again in my heart
and I’m not as freaked out
that grandfather sits
on the sidelines, tonight, their win
makes a right.
I am a woman in love with a team—
a tourist in the old
and a sleeper in the infamous.
My love tracked me here
with an atlas and a country song.

Quiet is the New Loud.
Darkside: 14
James and the Giant Meat: 4
Last game and the next
hail stones from mouths,
children feckless:
adults playing kickball.
Birds sing their announcements
before light, and light
doesn’t really matter
when you can sing.
But no one sings here,
The Meat don’t suffer in the world—
they keep it—
for themselves, make suffering
a treasure instead of a purge.
I want to listen to the birds’ song
while opening my eyes
to the same thing I’d see
if I never opened them.
My eyes are open.
It isn’t too dark for me
to hear your suffering, take it from you
and get it the fuck out.
You see, don’t you see
your shirt that says Spam, slim Jim,
(hope, recklessness)?
Let the horror rain, Meat, let the losses
roll, out your glands, into the dirt,
you are the Chosen, you are the One.

Dim Sky, Regard Us.

Darkside 15

Jackass 9

But before us still is the drive home

and way out.

They are restless,

and we officials drive in

to come out of our worst parts,

me, to stay away from: visiting family.

This game, a long distance fix
of shouting, questionable calls,
didn’t get
what was moving.
When I don’t know how to say it
better than that
I breathe and keep going.
I hear things, like “It’s hard when all the rules go down
the drain when you are the team who is winning” and I think:
Bor-ing
There is a measure in the mind,
and mine knows patronizing, I love it when Darkside say:
“I’ve umpped before, I know this rule”
like I am just an ordinary woman,
like Bud isn’t the best fucking ump you’ve had.
While Heidi from Jackass
is the best captain here, her team not doing
what she says because they’re drunk, but who cares, you see
they don’t, we don’t.
Who’s gonna lose faith now?
Not the umps—we make calls—
horrible and sweet, and the point
is the call,
not your call, not your keener eyes, not what you see
and each call never happens
to effect your win or loss,
nor your amazing past life in corporate baseball.
Darkside.
Inhale.
A coyote is trailing you. It’s a vision.
Exhale. There are trees beyond counting, but I’ll do it—
I’m the commish, I’m an ump, I’m your girlfriend,
I’m a dog.

Poetry, Meet Lindsey Baker Sucking a Big Fat Dick and then him WINNING.

Ball Deep—win by a gazillion, James and the Giant Meat—lose by a gazillion. How to catch a Baker by his toe? A valiant attempt by JGM. Michelle, a gifted artist of world renowned recognition, after this game anyway, pulled out a, oh I don’t know, like 10 feet high and wide Lindsey Baker head with a gaping wide jaw. What was this jaw doing so wide open? Why did his face look so poised for tears? Well, because as his magical head floated across the field, a giant cock, about the size of a Brat car, was stuffed into Baker’s mouth. The cock had on it: “This meat is too big for you to go ball deep.” Brilliant. No taunt has been better this year so far. But then the game started. We all expected Lindsey to scream like a little fucking baby every time someone on the other team did something right. But JGM must have gotten turkey tired or whatever they call it, because Lindsey Baker scored 2 HOME RUNS. Now, lets be honest, JGM are playing some really shitty kickball—REALLY bad, but Lindsey has also been inundating his team with daily practices, folders of emails, tips galore, and a hard-nosed approach to kickball. And you know what? It worked. He is a better kickball player. Just to add to the justice of the last 2 years of Lindsey being on horrible, horrible, kickball teams, his team Ball Deep scored ten runs in one innings. JGM—you should be ashamed. There are many ways to keep people from scoring runs. But you don’t know them. Ball Deep, you should be very, very happy. And stop the practicing for a while, take a break, have fun while it lasts. Because Keytarded is gonna suck so bad it’s not even gonna be fun to beat them.

Get Your Hand out of the Shitter and Win a Game! Darkside—win, Fist of the Kickball—lose. FOTK have one skit—rape something with a fist. Yup. And you know what? It hasn’t gotten old yet. Call me old fashioned, but I like a good thing that doesn’t change into a new-fangled technological wonder, like “ohhhh, look at my fancy shiny titanium fuck machine, ohhhhhhh.” Give me a fist and a jar of petroleum based product, and I’ll show you how you got on this planet, Sir. The Darkside won this game, but it could have gone either way at some points. You could see the sweat on their dark little eyebrows, and the tutus seemed more alert than usual. I see the demise of the Darkside coming on, I prophesize a night soon where a tutu is laid out in the corner, where it catches the moonlight of dewy childhood, and then the women strewn on the bed, batting their balmy eyes at the tutu remember they’re adults, and without the mother to cradle them after a poor performance on Madonna Dance Night at the Teen Center. They are winning by smaller margins, the feathers ruffling wider. And FOTK? It’s good to be on the bottom with someone. Take that how you will.

Women in the Alleyway. Atari—win, Danger Moustache—lose. is a series of paintings by Paula Rego that depict, what she calls “Dog Women”: http://www.saatchi-gallery.co.uk/artists/paula_rego.htm. Chris Abani has since written a book called Dog Woman after these paintings. Both artworks are brilliant in that they detail broad-faced women in shades of brown, red, and purple cotton clothing lounging in an alley corner, or sitting ungracefully atop a stool meant for a person with a smaller ass, or sprawled out in the corner of a gathering, set apart from the regal men who conjure stories of their glory days in the alcoholic candlelight. What all these Dog Women have in common is that they exist in a man’s world, but have an undeniable power that is at once disgusting and beautiful, and always noticeable to the artistic eye. Even in a Dog Woman’s defeat in her culture, her social group, and her chosen professions, she is sultry and full with possibility. Watching this game, umpping this game, squatting in the middle of the field behind pitchers, I felt that I had become powerful and sultry. It is a man’s world, this kickball, yet these teams have amazing women coming to play each week, certain in their kicks that a certain win doesn’t matter, and with bountiful titties. This game was the closest so far this season, and the past triumph of each team weighed heavily on the men’s faces, a 3 time championship on one side, and a close beating on the championship on the other. But what was I thinking? What were the rest of the women on the field thinking? This is what sets us apart from the men who play. We don’t share in your triumphs nor care as much as you. We are often in the corner—catcher position or short stop, where you control around us what happens with your big fucking ball and war stories. What are the women thinking while they play? What was I thinking as a spectator/ump? It wasn’t about triumph or success of either team. I remember one moment when the sky hit a balmy stillness and people were yelling across my head. I was in the middle, I was in the corner, and I wasn’t thinking about kickball at all. I was realizing possibility.

You Drank that Beer from How Many Crevices? AKA Commish’s Wet Dream. Jackass—win, Keytarded—lose.

Pirates—win, Keytarded—lose. I’ll just write these up together because basically they are on blur in my mind. Reach team, including my own, decided independently to all make me shotgun beer out of something. This started with the Jackass game because Andy Smull, beloved captain of Keytarded, knew that I like to shotgun beer out of Jackass captain Heidi’s titties. So he decided she was a naughty slutty captain, and to make Jackass pay for it, I was to mimic shotgunning beer out of Keytarded member Jon’s Crotch—out of a hat in his crotch to be more exact. A colorful hat. In the megaphone Keytarded shouted what a dirty slut she is, and I exclaimed that Jon’s crotch and Heidi’s bosom smell similar. I sure showed her. And then they wooped us. I have to admit, Keytarded played quite well this evening for being so “special”. Mindy held 2nd base, our “Boner Troop” outfielders Mike, Andy, and Matts caught balls. Lets forget I threw a ball at someone on the field to try and get them out. When I ump, I tell people that is the worst mistake, but it’s like teaching college English—the more horrible grammar you see, the more you have to fight the urge to just start using irregardless, ironical, and so on. Then they become a part of the English language vernacular, soon to emails, soon to print. We fight many temporary battles. And besides, later I hit the giant Pirate Matt in the ankle, scoring an out. So there. But I won’t do it again. So I ended up shotgunning beer from Heidi’s bosom before the game was over—I think it’s Jackass’s new luck charm, because they a re on fucking fire. On to the Pirates game. Keytarded threw fruit at them to help them with their scurvy. And then the large men of the Pirates grabbed me, taped me into a chair with Pirate tape, and force fed me a wonderful Belgian beer. As the foam poured out my nose, and I fought an unsuccessful fight of freeing myself, my night flashed before me. I am the luckiest woman on Earth right now. Them Keytarded Boner Recruit Team lifted me in the chair to out side while Matt C gently pulled the Pirate tape from my hair. Yes, the Pirates wooped us to. But you know what Keytarded accomplished? We said dumb things on the megaphone, we threw citrus fruit, we supported a member in drinking beer from another member’s crotch, we broke a Pirate’s finger, and we called Heidi a dirty little slut. You do the math—we are on the fucking top of fun.