Ballpark

The leaves had turned, some early jumpers blew down the sidewalks, others congregating in corners whispering that Winter was near. Lucinda looked again at her friend and saw the lines in his face, his perfectly combed hair grey as this mornings sky. After a moment he went on.

"I made his acquaintance early, he came for Gary Garrett when we were just boys. We used to walk over to the ball park after school, a bunch of us. You could climb up on the center field wall where the flag pole was ... we'd hold the rope- you know, the one used to raise the flag - jump from the wall and swing around and land again on the other side. Like pirates I guess, hell it was a small town".

He smiled a sad smile without looking up. She knew Ethan as well as anyone, and she saw it coming. On rare occasions he would get just the right combination of booze and weed, the planets would align, and he would be real. Completely honest, naked of pretext, he would show no hint of the other, of "True Blue". She always took it as a sort of miracle, a message from the universe to her, these brief transformations from asshole to oracle.

"Gary's daddy used to beat his ass. It was the first serious thing I ever knew about in my whole life. My first secret. We were in the 7th grade when Gary pulled his shirt up in the boys bathroom and showed me, told me about things worse than that, then made me swear not to tell. It made me want to throw up. Then it wasn't two weeks later it happened, when we walked to the ballpark after school that day. There were probably six or eight of us fooling around. Lots of times we'd spend an hour or so then each of us breaking off, or maybe in pairs, we'd walk on home. We'd been there swinging, whooping, forgetting anything but our pirate play. Taking swings in turn, all of us in line on that eight inch wide wall. It was thrilling, like flying or something. It wasn't really very dangerous though, you could let go half way out and land pretty easily in soft well kept grass. We'd all done it. Or when you came back to the wall swinging your feet up to catch, the others would reach out and grab you. This day though Gary looked at us and joked 'I gotta get home or my ol man is gonna beat my ass", and it passed as exaggeration but he and I locked eyes as he took his grip on the thin rope. I was nearly sick again right there. He took off, dropped halfway out in the arc waved and turned to walk away."

Lucinda sat silent, anxious at where the story seemed to go. Blue stared, still, at the snuff glass he drank from, rolling a final drop round and round, working his wrist in a pitched circle. Niether breathed for a moment. Finally he spoke.

"The flag pole snapped."

He raised his eyes looking for a bottle. It was empty. He half reached anyway, then lowered his hand and gaze.

"It didn't make any sense, still doesn't. The flag pole snapped and broke and fell in a perfectly straight line, hitting him right in the head. It doesn't make any sense how precise it seemed. I puked and someone ran to get a grown up. It didn't make sense at first, but I met Death early. And worse I met Evil just a few days before. It's a tough lesson for a 7th grader that sometimes Death is an escape from Evil. That sometimes it ain't something you can be afraid of. "

Long-haired Thomas

In a land
without homes,
a Kingdom
with no crown,
we were Judges
at least.
Survival rules
strictly enforced
and we were
the strongest.

We had put
our time in.

Tramp longest
of all, a born bully,
still handy in
a tussle.

Buckshot could
drink more than
anyone else,
got a check.

I guess my hustle
was strong, they say
conversation rules
the nation.

Long-haired Thomas
was not like us
but no less a part.

He was a snipe hunter-
kept us fat with
thrown down smokes,
he sang songs.

No cats allowed
in our dog eat dog
and his voice
was gentle on us
at night.

Thomas was gentle,
a part of us none the less.

Thank you

Thank You
I know
I have been
hateful
to you.
I was lost
in my
passion.
The truth
is
I miss you
very much.
I probably
should
thank you
for
making me
alive again
to love.
Thank you
for
making me
desirable again
to women.
I should thank you
for the
unrequited
love that
warmed
my bones
again
for a while.
Thank you.

Book of Numbers

Two-faced is
the name she called,
curse your god and
kill yourself.

Three days and six
into relapse and
spiraling down
we were newly wed,
she was an angelic child
of Billy Burroughs and
kicking against the goads.

Forty days, no more,
since we had stolen
away from rehab,
the exodus,
our hearts hardened
and necks stiff,
willing sacrifices
on blood stained alter,
but today our worship
offered no respite.

Tears fat as Martha's
rolled down her cheeks
leaving Revlon tracks,
ashes and sack-clothe.
Unable to wash away
born-again
dope-sick Jones.
I offered no comfort,
instead righteous indignation,
I lashed out.

A paired countenance?
Truly that and more.
Ten Thousand faces
I have known.
A Thousand Thousand
lies, to keep us high.

The number of
finger and thumb
rolled cotton balls
dried stiff,
orange caps and
rigs dulled and
matchbook sharpened
with the units
worn smooth on
over-used barrels
left behind busted-up-dressers,
pay-by-the-week motels,
without end,
like Abraham's children.

Numbers this great
have names known
only to the church
of long dead magicians-
earliest mathematicians,
hookah and hashish,
bridging the gap
between sand and stars,
between Heaven and Earth.

Each face, each place and
infinite next pilgrim
share singular purpose-

a prayerful look forward.

Scanning without cease
the horizons, the very
edge of paradise,
hungry eyes searching
(milk and honey I promise)
through tunnel vision slits
of unending masks
seeking favor, discernment and grace-
forgiveness for sins as yet uncopped and
the darkest spirit asking me,
in a small still voice,

Good and faithful servant
who will you be in this moment
in order to stay loaded today?