some things are better left unexplained.

The number of unmatched socks in this sock drawer is: 0. Add your own sock.

Post a Comment

<< Home

Thursday, November 27, 2014

Poetry and Football

I will throw you a hail Mary of a sonnet,
forward lateral a double entendre
and tackle you with dissonant consonant overconfidence.
You will cry, "facemask!"
as the look of surprise is torn from your cheeks,
as though there are rules
for poetry.

This is a pick-up game we play
no boundary lines chalked in
no referees but ourselves.
This is two hand touch.
We count Mississippis before we blitz,
and our touchdown lines
are the stick and the big rock.

This is a bar game
where we pride ourselves on the boundaries we tread,
the ones we made up ourselves
and still can’t agree on.
Poetry slam.
If we told people on the street
we were olympic curlers instead,
more people would understand
what we were saying that we do.

We can delude ourselves
all we like
about our plans to make the pros
one day
let some scout in the bleachers
discover us on some open mic
bump us up to the college circuit
the big show
just to run the same two poems
over and over every night for a year
while all of our friends
shake their heads
at how we've compromised our art
for the sake of being recognized
for being good at it.

We misconstrue applause as fame,
find celebrity in insecurity
and point fingers as though
the results were everything.

We insist we are justified
each time we cripple and blame
those who insist they were justified
for crippling and blaming.
And maybe we are.
How do you score that?
Is that all the fans came to see?

Let's play for a score,
put on a show
while not forgetting the love of the game.
Let's put the third stringers out there
alongside the poetry legends
and let them teach each other something
about craftsmanship and style.
This is our old stomping ground
that we need to treat like it was shiny and new.

Fresh blood keeps us young,
and we never know.
One of these fresh-faced kids
might take the field
with a shaky voice and a steady hand.
Watch this kid throw a rocket.
Ask them if they suited up today
mostly for the gossip and the drama;
whether they stepped up to the mic
for that first time
ever planning to make use
of the padding
and the helmet.

Let us sit the bench for a day,
watch poetry as spectators,
mostly for the commercials and the awkward banter.
Let us write to change the world again
like we used to

before we ever wanted to be famous.

Your blog is better than my blog.