Monday, October 8, 2012

Fantasy Baseball

To speak first
Is to speak out of turn

To speak, first
You must open your mind

With your mouth
Without breathing it

Keeping it in
For hundreds of syllables

By which you mark time.

When the spheres were our cartels
We could do whatever we wanted

Now they orbit the moon
Of diminishing return

And when it is noon
On that gnomic orb

Hands full of lilies
Vanish under the sundial

And a venial rain
Falls slowly on it.

And when the spheres were our cartels
We began to speak

Of diminishing return
Without breathing it

Slowly filling the vein
With hundreds of syllables

That rhyme with blood.

To speak first
You must open the eye

In your mind’s eye
Out to the edge of

A bodily bound
To keep marking time

Until it is noon
On another sphere

Where hands filled with litter
Cover the lilies

And a grass house
Is deemed fitter for flourishing

There a virginal rain
Fills the vein slowly

Without bursting it
And marks time.

I was born with a gun to my head
And a face made of glass.

I was stone once
Before they made me.

I was made of the world’s gravy
That a god sopped up with a crust

And tasted of and ate, and was ashamed.
I was born in a grass house

Out to the edge of
Town (this would have been

Before the city succumbed
To the wicked sons

And the streets became veins
Filled with red syllables).

I put a gun to my head
And marked time.

I was a stone once
Before they made me

Do it.

I put the phone to my mouth
Without breathing in.

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