Archive for the ‘Sport’ Category

November Series

November 1, 2010

On Saturday, the search for bodies stopped

behind the smoking barricade of wooden
horses. Rudy Giuliani stood in

shit a little while. The Yankees dropped.

It felt like falling. And I felt like singing
Nessun Dorma, as the rank and file
locked arms and firefighters stormed the pile.
Nothing rose. A clock alarm kept ringing.

Mardi Gras Sketches

February 8, 2010

Purple
(Ghost of the Quarter)

The gutterline across Lafitte’s is strung
with plastic banners for the Mardi Gras—
the colors of the King Cake, purple hung
by gold and green—the quintessential trois
couleurs. It’s bunting for the old parade
on Bourbon and St. Philip in the Quarter.
Tip the Pleasure Club for Social Aid,
we’re leaning into the shadow, bricks and mortar,

where on the jukebox, Richard Manuel
complains about the sorry shape he’s in.
That rumble in the alley. What the hell—
it’s save your neck or save your brother’s skin
and call a number for the second line.
Let’s say we resurrect Evangeline.

Gold
(Roll and Walk)

I met some solid Catholics at St. Ray’s
on Friday morning. In from Washington
(the State), they drove me to a yellow shotgun
out in St. Bernard’s (the Parish). Days
and days (a year or three) of work and real prayer
got this palace studded-up for walls,
and so we screwed the gypsum down the halls—
your typical two-family with a wheelchair.

At lunch, a guy called Tom who didn’t talk
a lot began to juggle hammers, not
that he was any good. A nervous tic.
a little extra energy. It got
the neighborhood’s attention. Roll and walk,
your harder kids looked sideways at this trick.

Green
(L’Enfer)

I lose the echo of accordion
amidst the vials of absinthe on the bar,
the spyboy calls and lamplight denouement…
“Prepare yourself for Krewe Endymion!”
(or Continental Airlines in the morning)
…and focus on an antique silver bowl,
the cubes that burn, suspended, to the toll
of spoon on glass. Their bluish glow a warning,

now they flare and melt into a liquor
green, a scene insidiously steeped
in Degasesque demise. L’enfer, despair,
temptation. Like the wisp of flame that leaped
through blackness to the match at my cigar
expiring as I cross to Frenchman Square.

Pray, What is the Reason for That?

November 18, 2009

John J. Trause reads from Lewis Carroll’s “You are Old, Father William” (Alice in Wonderland, Chapter V) for Poetry at Tasty Coco on Tuesday.

Infamous Moments in Pick-up Football #137

September 2, 2008

He lithely dodged a crusty ten year old
and spun on air—not bad for forty-two.
He found the end-zone clear and hit it cold
and harder than an inkpen jail tattoo.

The cheater blitzed on four Mi’ssippies, pal–
you saw the dance, that sand and bully kick
come up the gut, destroying the morale
of rookie linemen slippery and quick.

You saw him spike the ball he should have eaten
and how he wouldn’t give the kid a break.
Consider all the ways he might be beaten—
you saw the way he telegraphs the fake.

That’s business, pal. As brutal as it gets.
On Avon beach, they’re calling in the bets.

Have a Nice Weekend ~,:^)

July 6, 2007

A Sticky Wicket, What?

January 5, 2007

ashes_urn.jpg

Rob, whom I know from the intrepid “UK Phalanx” of the International Chemical Business Press Junket, came by and commented on my poem, Ashes, yesterday. The poem is about reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, which describes a trek through a torched, post-Apocalypse landscape. Rob, however, assumed I was taking on a far more dreadful situation now gripping Britain. We stiffen our upper lip in sympathy.

This will, however, give me an ice-breaker with the Australian receptionist at Tectura next time I see her in the elevator.