Sunday, April 17, 2022

Odes And Toads: 14 Pindaric Baseball Acrostics

 

Odes And Toads:

 

14 Pindaric Baseball Acrostics

 

 


 

 

Anarchistic, mustachioed, white-shod, swingin’

Team of my boyhood,

Hella representin’ our

Lighthearted Oaktown of summertime sun—

Erupting in cheer at Hatteberg’s shot:

Twenty fucking victories

In a row, doing what no baseball

Club has ever done before or

Since—hiring a genius, that is.

 

 

All our nightmares come true.

‘Nother real estate owner

Giving away millions to aging sluggers with

Elongated careers and neckless wonders.

Los Angeles, you wish, Anaheim.

Scioscia, too, is such an ass.

 

 

Rawhide team of too many colors, it’s

Always a slugfest in Arlington

Never a pitchers’ duel.

Game after game in gale-force winds

Eminent sluggers try to salvage

Rookie pitchers. They always

Swoon in August. It’s just too hot in that endless

parking lot they call a stadium.

 

 

God, what an awful excuse for a team:

International League rejects

And Silicon Valley tech bro fanboys—

Nonetheless losers of more World Series’

Than any other club ever, outclassed

Suburban shills; it used to take a Candlestick in the fog to find ‘em.

 

 

Dodging streetcars in LA?

Oh, dem bums is always blue

Down by the old slaughterhouse.

Goin’ west, where the SoCal sky

Enhances their unis.

Regionalism betrayed, but it’s

Still hard to sing ill of Jackie’s courageous club.

            (‘cept maybe for la Sorda—I hear he’s a jerk.)

 

 

 

Best name in baseball, it

Reminds us of our German heritage and

Eschews Wisconsin’s milk or cheese for a can;

Where Barney slides into a giant mug of it

Every time the home team homers, his

Rear-end surely sore when Hammerin’ Hank

Stepped to the plate there, those last two years.

 

 

Tin stadia were the best

I think, despite (or because of) the noise they made.

Gothic script, too, for yr logo

Engenders Baseball with tradition.

Regardless of agency,

Sometimes better things are best left alone.

 

 

Red, the commie color

Embraced by a machine of short-haired

Decent young men (‘cept for one bad flower) and Nazi-loving Marge

Schott—shame on her.

 

 

Cuddly

Underachieving

Becursed

Southside scourge.

 

 

Riled up over nuttin’

Every goddamned year

“Death to the Yankees!”

So goes the cheer,

Over-obsessed Sox fans:

Xanax and mucho Milwaukee beer.

 

 

Yeah, we had to hear way too much

About old Derek “the klutz” Jeter;

Nothing else seemed to matter for many a year.

Kinda got my goat, the worst fielding shortstop

Ever paraded around like

Elizabeth Taylor in the tabloids.

Statistics don’t lie, Joe Morgan.

 

 

Meet Mookie’s Mets

(Enclitic for Metropolitans),

The other guys in New York,

Suturing the wound of West Coast abandonment.

 

 

Now some say baseball

Actually reflects American history—

This may well be true.

I noticed that when the Expos

Outlived their Canadian welcome, the

Nat’s eschewed to become “Senators” (thrice removed)

And found a suitable national replacement.

Let’s hear it for our millennial Washingtonians; seems they know

“Senator” ’s since become an even dirtier word than...

 

 

 

            9/2015

            Florence

 

 

 

 

P.S.

 

 

Cheer for Chad,

Handiman of the

Athletics, his name so

Damn close to the

Poet who, all those many centuries ago,

Inscribed verses for athletes both

National and Barbarian, in

Demotic verse,

Eternally inspiring

Readers and poetasters alike to misread his e for an A.

 

 

 

4/17/2022

            Florence

 

 

Thursday, March 25, 2021

FAKE NOVEL excerpt (Chapter 13: Best in Show)

 

Chapter Thirteen: Best in Show

(In which a bunch of bribed politicians shoot up a high school in Florida)

 

AKA Seventeen Corpses

(A Western remake starring Ronnie Raygun and Jane Russell’s tits in a tight sweater)

 

 

The Drumpfster, a soft and soggy insufficiently bullied draft-dodging teenager, hides out in the bowels of his Mafioso father’s golden tower. He contemplates revenge on his high school for the insult of algebra. (That and the fact that almost every other student in the school is smarter and poorer than he is.) He combs his hair over his bald spot until he sees a troubled teen in the mirror. He regrows his acne and his ears stick out like the ferret-man who runs the Department of Justice. (Klansman Sessions is one of Dr. Moreau’s less successful creations—he still bites, but prefers dark meat.)

            Better yet: the teenage Drumpfster hides the effects of radiation on his thinning hair with a red MAGA (My Attorney Got Arrested) cap and contemplates just how to make Trumpistan great again. He decides that teenage Jews are the biggest threat to his dictatorship and the Trumpistani way of life. Going to a high school and gunning down as many Jews as possible will be a good start to white Christian greatness—and the Rapture. He will march to South Florida and shoot his way to freedom from algebra, alcohol, almanacs, alfalfa, Ali Baba, Al Capone, and all of the other Semitic plots undermining the greatest white trash redneck shithole country on Earth.

            He spends a few hours practicing a Nazi salute in the mirror before putting on his makeup, getting into the hairspray, and heading out to do God’s work.

 

Donald Duck Drumpf received $30.3 million directly from the National Rifle Association in campaign contributions—perhaps much, much more through PACS and Super PACS—much of this money reportedly coming from Russian oligarchs and merely laundered through the NRA.

Good dog! Stay—no, stay-y-y-y. OK, stand on your hind legs and beg.

 

 

Paul Ryan sits in his parents’ home polishing his saber, oiling his rod, jerking off to NAMBLA porn—gazing at his own white face in the mirror with a great deal of affection. He prays for the strength to carry out the orders of his superiors. He will be Superman (a real/fake man, that is to say, a brainless killer), Batman (avenging his white parents against the ethnic scum who murdered them), Thor (a real/fake purebred Aryan), Captain America (that unique combination of exploitable loyalty and rabid racism in a leotard), Wonder Woman (a token dose of sensitivity in her big-chested, motherly violence), Black Panther (a politically correct token), Silver Surfer (he’s not a nerd, he’s cool!) and even Deadpool (Reaganite irony destroying empathy through smug cynicism).[1]

            Paul Ryan—his Eddie Munster’s puppy-dog face erased in this palimpsest of superhero lore—loads his AR-57.

 

Paul Ryan has received $49,650 directly from the NRA in campaign contributions over the last twenty years, probably much more through hidden channels.

Here’s a treat. Beg—now beg-g-g-g.

 

 

Marco Rubio climbs into his mom’s SUV to give his gun a lift to school. Along the way talk radio (Rush Limbaugh) tells him that illegal Mexicans are killing innocent blond Trumpistani girls on piers in evil queer sanctuary city San Francisco; that all liberals are sneaky idiot/geniuses who hate his freedom and want to take away his penis/gun/right to be an asshole racist; that evil Jews in suits in banks are helping us Christians arrive at our much-desired Armageddon but that we should hate their shifty lawyer ways anyway; that feminists are all hairy-legged lesbians aimed at cutting off his still flaccid penis, one painful slice at a time; that feminism is a communist plot against his ever getting hard or having the pleasure of dominating some bitch and turning her from a whore into a mother with his theoretically hard cock; that the police only shoot blacks because they resist God’s law (arrest); that the only thing utterly against divine law is saying no to a white man; that Millennials are pampered snowflakes in need of a good war to toughen them up; that filthy Muslim commie Taliban goat-fuckers resist bowing down to our warlord flag in Afghanistan and Iraq; that Iran can’t be trusted; that only a dumb black man with a Muslim name like Barack Hussein Obama would trust those Middle Eastern scum—so we need to nuke ‘em behind their backs, the sneaky rag-head bastards; that Russia is our best ally now that they’ve adopted our own mafia-style economic system (and are also the only other sensible white nation left in the world[2]); and that in the new New World Order we two white nations will rule over all of the darkie shithole countries together.

After Rubio blows apart seventeen teenage bodies at the school, the radio personalities quoted above will blame video games, bullying, and mental illness for the deaths—anything but guns, white male anything, Drumpf’s incendiary speeches, or their own fear-mongering.

 

Marco Rubio received a paltry $5,000 directly from the NRA in contributions to his first campaign, but an additional million when he ran for reelection—after proving that he was an obedient pup. He’s such a kiss-ass he would have done everything they wanted him to do for much less.

Who’s a good boy? You are! You’re a goo-oo-oo-d boy!

 

 

Rob Portman pulls into the parking lot of the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, stoned out of his mind on talk radio, red baseball caps, Drumpf rallies, and comic book heroes. Trumpistan teaches young white men mostly only one thing: violence will solve all of your problems.

Today Robbie Portman’s going hunting. The more Jew kids he shoots in the next half hour, the greater Trumpistan will be in the morning.

            Little Robbie carries his erect assault rifle through the glass doors and into the school. His actual, fleshy penis is a shriveled and useless lump in the pants he’s about to wet in excitement and fear. (Yeah, this is all about hating mommy—his teachers and Hillary Clinton. Guns are the anti-mommy erect steel cocks to which envious male white babies cling; they signify the coward’s dream of uniting sex and supremacy through bloodletting.) Little Robbie’ll show ‘em what it means for a boy to become a man: it means killing bad guys. Ronnie Raygun killed bad guys in Hollywood movies. Well, actually it was John Wayne—but, by 1980, Wayne was no longer available to be cast as president of the New World Order. Trumpistan settled for the B-movie version. Trumpistan always prefers remakes to originals.

            “Ronald Reagan is my avatar of white masculinity and though I walk through the valley of the liberal media and gun-hating hippies I shall not want for bullets to smite the fuck out of anybody who gets in my way, Jack,” Portman mumbles before opening fire.

 

Robert Portman received $29,455 from the NRA for his first campaign and an additional $731,400 toward reelection.

Pee on the paper: down, boy! Do-o-o-own! Now pee on the paper while we all watch.

 

 

Inside the school, gun raised and cocked, Ted Cruz lets the bullets fly in sweet relief, thrill-pee pulsing down his thighs. There’s almost no kickback from the compliant gun (just like a real/fake Christian woman). The flesh, brains, blood, and bone spurs of children fly about the classrooms like confetti at a birthday party. Amid the hysterical screaming of those not yet dead, children run in circles around traumas that will brand them, their DNA, and their descendants for eternity. It’s nothing personal, just our way of life in action, business as usual in Washington, DC. It’s the price you pay for believing in democracy, for trusting the rich, for the indifference you have to force yourself to feel to support all of the Human Centipede administration’s attacks on human rights—from Aleppo to Tuskegee, from Saigon to the homeless encampments of Los Angeles. (Behind every great fortune, a greater crime.) You’ll never take away little Teddie’s freedom to spurt bullets, to smirk at you from your TV screen, to feel infinitely superior to the sheeple, to laugh at you and your liberal bullshit. Nobody tells little Teddie what to do with his pee-pee gun.

            Superman’s Kryptonite cum rips through these kids’ clothes and skin with hands of steel. Children’s bodies tear like paper in his superhero grasp, heads bouncing around the gym like deflated footballs. Gore rains on the wounded and terrified faces on the linoleum, as their parents and teachers, as Trumpistan, its military and its police, have taught them to do. This is the position of the patriot, face down on the floor, ass up for whatever an authority figure wants to shove in it.

            Trump/Reagan/B-movie cowboy/superhero/NRA-bought Senator boy then stomps on the shivering, writhing, and still bodies—the still living playing dead, fighting back their screams—the corpses rapidly cooling to room temperature. He stomps ‘em good with his leather boots and cowboy spurs, grinding their bones to chalk against the orange linoleum. (Even this is useless as chalk has long been replaced by disposable markers in Trumpistan’s “schools”—they pollute better, cost less, and make industrialists richer faster than chalk ever did.)

 

Ted Cruz received $11,900 from the NRA during his first campaign, plus another $65,000 for his 2012 Senate bid.

Speak! Now Speak! Tell the people about the price of freedom, then go sit in your basket until I call you again.

 

 

When feeding time is over, Wayne LaPierre locks the gate and walks away from the kennel as the barking subsides to the reluctant silence of a neglected kennel.

 

 *          *          *

 

Good guys always kill more people than bad guys—that’s how they get to be called “good guys.” They win the war by killing more people than the bad guys. Then, once they’ve won the war, their historians write that they were the good guys, that they were on the right side, the winning side, the side that killed the most people, took power, and kept it—at least until the time when those history books got written.



[1] It’s obvious that the author of this fake novel holds superhero mythology in disdain and has never read any of these comics—therefore this passage is more religious than aesthetic, insomuch as it represents the kind of pure prejudice most of this novel attacks. You don’t like it? It’s contradictory? Fuck off and read a Dan Brown novel.

[2] Read: not socialist.

 

 

 

 

 


 

Wednesday, March 3, 2021

Waitin’ for the Vaccine Blues

 

As if in auto-

Citation, San Francisco

Calls up some wind

And a little fog

Today.

 

                        My mind

Wanders in empty fields

Of Covid time, end-

Less and finite

As a lost dog.

 

                        I walk

Where the traffic lights

Bid me and Alamo Square

Is where I sit

 

And where San Francisco

Writes itself

Into my note-

Book.

 

                        Half a million

American souls

Know it’s true.

 

 

 

                                    2/2/2021

                                    Alamo Square, SF

 

 


Friday, July 24, 2020

The Last Bitter Coffee



The last bitter coffee
in Naples, the last sip
of this life I live
vicariously, a traveller’s
life, denizen of cities
lived like dreams
,one at a time,
everything in the moment,
but soon forgotten.

And, like a miracle
of San Gennaro himself,
this is the best coffee
of them all, and a fitting
postscript to the sweetest
dream I have dreamt.

O, how good it tastes,
How strong and jittery it makes me
For the train ride to come,
for tomorrow
and tomorrow
and all the tomorrows
to come.



7/24/2020
Naples







 
"The Last Romantics." Seen in Forcella, Naples.


Wednesday, July 22, 2020

Worse than Ozymandias



Nothing says fuck you
quite like a castle.
it stands there
daring you
to fuck with it,
to assail
its unassailable heights
,its unreachable ramparts,
but no matter
how many castellani
you manage to kill,
the castle remains.
And when it’s yours,
your own conquered
fuck you
rising from the earth or the sea
as far into the sky
as any human construction,
you’re trapped in it
until the next barbarian
comes along
,takes it from you,
and locks himself
in its dank
dungeons.




7/21/2020
Naples
 




Castel Sant'Elmo in Naples. Angevin, built around 1275.

Tuesday, July 21, 2020

Hymn to Partenope



Partenope, predatory
as any earthly creature
,who all must eat,
omnivorous and unable
to fish—her bird wings got in the way
of the wire—created the art
of singing. To snare a man. Any man.
Not for loving—
she sang of other matters
of poverty perhaps, or camaraderie,
or the moonlight on the turbulent sea
—anything but romance, anything but love.

For she and her two sisters
had grown tired of poking their beaks
into the dirt, of grubbing
for scraps, and the island
was too rocky to plant. Anthropologists
confirm civilization impossible
under such circumstances.

            Not even Circe’s
Resources—a hut, a stall,
or the power of magic
to protect them, the sirens
did all that they could do.

Until Odysseus undid it all.
This is how my city was born in blood
And death and singing.




7/20/2020
Naples