Grass&Gravel Times
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Poetry Thursday _ August 9
link to other August 2007 posts
Repeating the Sounds of Anonymity
Carousing poetics trap a word drunk surfing bum
With muddled message similes in the margins
Leaving rod vision minds peripherally dumb
Not being there online becomes the place to be
There are those who cannot go where they say
Fellow homonym-niacs may reveal their privates
Make Thursday an unresponsive tomorrow today
Exposed like language unheard by the left brain
Mired in wiki trivia, a most unknown obscurant
Belies common knowledge with jaja entrails
Temptation lurks between the words eye can’t
See what I won’t be in its hidden cognate forms
link to other August 2007 posts
Repeating the Sounds of Anonymity
Carousing poetics trap a word drunk surfing bum
With muddled message similes in the margins
Leaving rod vision minds peripherally dumb
Not being there online becomes the place to be
There are those who cannot go where they say
Fellow homonym-niacs may reveal their privates
Make Thursday an unresponsive tomorrow today
Exposed like language unheard by the left brain
Mired in wiki trivia, a most unknown obscurant
Belies common knowledge with jaja entrails
Temptation lurks between the words eye can’t
See what I won’t be in its hidden cognate forms
Labels: 9aug07, poetry_thur
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Baseball - the adolescent phase
Baseball, the game of life, in 4 parts
Every true American poet has a baseball ballad.
Every true American writer has a baseball masterpiece.
It is America’s game, at least we invented the myth.
Facts found by an official commission rarely are questioned,
It is how we learn to believe in ourselves.
Forget it. Baseball is just a game for slackers!
Lots of time to muse about pussy,
Pussy you thought you got,
Pussy you never thought you’d get,
Pussy that, well just good old warm pussy thoughts.
Mind games. Limited symbolic action.
A game invented for men by men, balls and bats,
Other than that pretty much a women on her back,
The diamond and the key parts exposed for play,
A euphemistic metaphor that spells out sex.
There are the numbers, measures of success,
I guess, 3 for 4 is an outstanding day for a hitter, who
Plays at night, under the lights, but things average out.
Not many hit over .250, and that is a ball knocked
Where gloves cannot catch the prize.
Nobody really wants the prize though, like men
Playing the game of life, they don’t know what to do
When luck puts them in the spotlight.
So they throw it away, and try get the hitter out,
Making him just another dugout stiff again.
Most anyone can play this game,
Some guys are better at the symbolic parts.
The numbers expose their successes, if they are too successful
They raise the quality of the pussy.
Mostly that is a matter of size and numbers too.
Tight is huge by those measures, especially if
The legs are longer, and the pitcher has good stuff.
What do they really mean when the commentator says,
“He struck out on a pitch that was way inside?”
Talking the talk is all about the unattainable.
Most poets try to get funny with the numbers
Making out like the verses are innings, something artificial,
Kind of like a good bit of baseball.
Most of them miss what the game is really about, anyway,
Not here, this is just the seventh stanza stretch.
Return to Poetry Thursday
Every true American poet has a baseball ballad.
Every true American writer has a baseball masterpiece.
It is America’s game, at least we invented the myth.
Facts found by an official commission rarely are questioned,
It is how we learn to believe in ourselves.
Forget it. Baseball is just a game for slackers!
Lots of time to muse about pussy,
Pussy you thought you got,
Pussy you never thought you’d get,
Pussy that, well just good old warm pussy thoughts.
Mind games. Limited symbolic action.
A game invented for men by men, balls and bats,
Other than that pretty much a women on her back,
The diamond and the key parts exposed for play,
A euphemistic metaphor that spells out sex.
There are the numbers, measures of success,
I guess, 3 for 4 is an outstanding day for a hitter, who
Plays at night, under the lights, but things average out.
Not many hit over .250, and that is a ball knocked
Where gloves cannot catch the prize.
Nobody really wants the prize though, like men
Playing the game of life, they don’t know what to do
When luck puts them in the spotlight.
So they throw it away, and try get the hitter out,
Making him just another dugout stiff again.
Most anyone can play this game,
Some guys are better at the symbolic parts.
The numbers expose their successes, if they are too successful
They raise the quality of the pussy.
Mostly that is a matter of size and numbers too.
Tight is huge by those measures, especially if
The legs are longer, and the pitcher has good stuff.
What do they really mean when the commentator says,
“He struck out on a pitch that was way inside?”
Talking the talk is all about the unattainable.
Most poets try to get funny with the numbers
Making out like the verses are innings, something artificial,
Kind of like a good bit of baseball.
Most of them miss what the game is really about, anyway,
Not here, this is just the seventh stanza stretch.
Return to Poetry Thursday
Labels: baseball, poetry, poetry_thur
