Poems For The St. Louis News: III-IV
3
Pitchers are obviously not human. They have the ghosts of dead people in them. You wait there while they glower, put their hands to their mouths, fidget like puppets, while you’re waiting to catch the ball.
You give them signs. They usually ignore them. A fast outside curve. High, naturally. And scientifically impossible. Where the batter either strikes out or he doesn’t. You either catch it or you don’t. You had called for an inside fast ball.
The runners on base either advance or they don’t
In any case
The ghosts of the dead people find it mightily amusing. The pitcher, in his sudden humaness looks toward the dugout in either agony or triumph. You, in either case, have a pair of hot hands.
Emotion
Being communicated
Stops
Even when the game isn’t over.
4
God is a big white baseball that has nothing to do but go in a curve or a straight line. I studied geometry in highschool and know that this is true.
Given these facts the pitcher, the batter and the catcher all look pretty silly. No Hail Marys
Are going to get you out of a position with the bases loaded and no outs, or when you’re 0 and 2, or when the ball bounces out to the screen wildly. Off seasons
I often thought of praying to him but could not stand the thought of that big, white, round, omnipotent bastard.
Yet he’s there. As the game follows rules he makes them.
I know
I was not the only one who felt these things.
Jack Spicer
Posted in The Octopus Magazine
1 comment:
I think God can darn well go in any direction he wants to. Look at the platypus!
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