I. Midway Park

 

Unzipping my Rawlings™ extra-large rolling bat bag

I see a dead bee in the palm of my catcher’s mitt.

It was dried out and crunched when thrown against

The concrete dugout floor: made sure to stomp on it

(for good measure).

 

It was faux pas to draw in the dirt, still, I used the heel

Of my cleat to sketch a house, simple four walls,

Roof maybe a door if I didn’t have to field a ground ball.

Always brushed into obscurity when the game actually begins.

 

I will hold to this always, worse than celibacy, than tongue

Removed with hot pinchers is walking in a run with the bases loaded.

POX-ECLIPSE then I saw Heaven opened,

and behold, a white horse! The one sitting on it is called Faithful and True, and in righteousness, he judges and makes war. His eyes are like a flame of fire, and on his head are many diadems, and he has a name written that no one knows but himself. He is clothed in a robe dipped in blood, and the name by which he is called is the Word of God.  And the armies of heaven, arrayed in fine linen, white and pure, were following him on white horses. Heaven opened, and behold, a white horse! There is nothing but blood in the trough. The one sitting on it is called Faithful and True, and in righteousness, he judges and makes war. His eyes are like a flame of fire, and on his head are many diadems, and he has a name written that no one knows but himself. The names of childhood friends, and of internal idioms. He is clothed in a robe dipped in blood, and the name by which he is called is the Word of God. And the armies of heaven, arrayed in fine linen, white and pure, were following him on white horses. A dead bumblebee swatted from the eyes of the beast. Returning, staggered and limping, the armed of God take of their bloodstained lines for washing. The world has been reigned in.

(An earlier memory, before the fall)

Pull the cap down low over eyes, like a cowboy high noon.

Squint-tears and eyeblack, acne break out next day in algebra 1.

Taking the first pitch as an act of dhyāna,

Augustine chopping down a pear tree.

You must take – be glad (0-1) (1-0).

Then the game beings after the animals are named.

Aurochs and I run wind sprints from foul pole to foul pole,

Lead my God, my curly hair underneath a rally cap,

Here batter batter, baiting the hook, here here, now.

Red clay baked into your prepubescent arm hair. (Eutierria).

A curveball thrown into the dirt to the #3 hitter (with relentless confidence,)

On a 3-0 count and a runner on third is the most articulated

Version of glory I have seen. The world is no longer the same.

God has been replaced, birds picking up sunflowers seeds are

More fearful when they scatter from the

rattle of fence thwacked by a foul ball.

{négatités} // mauvaise foi

The world without end begin!

The first mode of arrogance has bloomed.