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
musicians.

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.

*     *     *     *     *

Yes.
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.

Office Politics

the water asked the hammer
where’s the fire to put out?
the hammer told the water
you better let me hammer it out
the pliers told the both of them
you need to get a grip
the screwdriver told them
screw you all, and don’t give me no lip!

Model 01164

Grey stone, I am, hunched always
in the rain – always out –
a grey stone basket on my back
from which bright flowers sprout.

Born a warrior in Sparta – sharpened
as a lance to march toward death;
sold into slavery in Athens
to a sculptor with bad breath.

My fate – it was to die
pierced by worthy enemy –
not be posed and chiseled –
burdened for eternity.

from a Spartan in the phalanx
where once I served the god of war
to “Granite Man from Antiquity
Bearing Flower Basket (Model 01164)”.

I Married Helium

You’re betrothed is beautiful
she’s quite a comely lass
the only downside I can see –
she moves just like a gas.

the billionaire in my basement

illustrated poem: the billionaire in my basement

Blame Me Only for Again

Don’t blame the plunger
​for the error of the flapper.
​​Don’t blame the bad news
on the rubber band (or any other wrapper).
​Don’t blame the little piglets
​for your slip inside the pen.
Don’t blame me for once,
​blame me only for again.

Cheap Source of Protein

cheap source of protein

The Bit In The Mouth Of The Jockey

The bit in the mouth of the jockey
made a laugher of the horse,
made the stable hay turn red –
his hide whipped raw of course.

But should a horse be whipped for laughing
if his rider chews the bit,
or should the whipping boy be who should know
where the bit was meant to fit?

Ballad (Ballast) of the Hummer Driver

I got a Hummer H1
parked in my driveway.
I keep it very shiny.

It hasn’t helped me get chicks.
It’s like they all know
my dick’s so thin and tiny.

paint it raw

raw is a color
that could be red
that could be blue
a yellow-dead
hue for you
though never saw
it’s your room now
so paint it raw