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.

This entry was posted on Thursday, June 22nd, 2006 at 11:52 am and is filed under Writeups. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.