Baseball, Closing Day

Last day of September. Last day of this baseball season. First of the morning, old lefty Tommy Glavine hurling in Flushing. Mets win and they’re in – all the Fish are playing for is that weird sense of continuity, the last leaves on an October tree.


During our summers I feel as though I have to be up first thing and productive before the heat of the day. The heat stifles my muses, makes my mind into mush, turns my thoughts into rubbish.

When the abatement comes, as it did this week, I’m happy again. Finally I can sleep in. Wake late and not feel pressures to work right away. I can work all day at a cool 68 and not need to run the AC. Red wine tastes good, and meals can be hearty affairs – roast meats, braised veggies, baked tarts and cakes and pies.


a fog this morning

hiding the day

the low moaning of jets

and how they hum on approach

if it must end today i’d like

a sendoff this way –

the planes to be silent so

the fogs can say the last words.


What’s so civil about war anyways?

All over Port Orchard you see the rhetoric. God Bless our Troops and Geroge Bush. Support Geroge Bush and Our Troops. America – Love It Or Leave It.

If our daughters were being whored out, we’d find the pimp and break his legs. Why is that when our sons are whored out, we bully for the pimp? Do we have secret contempt for our sons, desires to see them raped, flayed and martyred? Could that explain the popularity of the Jesus myth and especially the Mel Gibson version of it?

As Axl said –

I don’t need your civil war
It feeds the rich while it buries the poor
Your power hungry sellin’ soldiers
In a human grocery store
Ain’t that fresh!


first of the fourth fourth! the days are getting shorter at their maximum rate. Meaning that the rate at which the days are getting shorter – the second derivative, if you’re mathematically inclined – is now falling. Even as the pendulum passes the center at full speed, a deceleration is detected. The year is coming back, even as it disappears… the goddess showing the first signs of pregnancy.


a little poem about not really knowing my dad. Inspired by an ad for the Washington lottery, thinking how bizarre it is that the states run lotteries…

my dad must have prayed
he’d win the Big Spin
and never go to work again
how do I suppose he’d begin?
i’d only begun to know the man
it’s hard to say – travels?
no, not him. mansion?
maybe. in the honey hills
where he could bring his mother
and grow his own grapes –
buy a new liver? Or say to hell
with me and my mother
and steal a fresh lover?
a senorita to clean the place
with a peasant’s fastidiousness
cook Menudos, cultivate his
philosophic interests
and cleanse his testicles
with an heiress’s filthiness…


Late summer in San Diego. Some days are still hot, but the nights are starting to give up their heat. No more overnight lows of 70, thank the God of the year. Cool mornings mean an early eagerness for coffee, pastries and work. Autumnal Equinox this week, the year now broken for all to see, heading into his fourth quarter. Soon the cold mornings will come and it’ll be time to bust out my beanie. I can’t wait.