Friday, April 09, 2010
favorite poems about teens
Hallway Between Lunch and English
(Freud Can Kiss My Sexually Ambiguous Arse)
we all like to strut
(squeak of black boots on yellow linoleum)
and show our teeth
in primitive smiles
(crack of bubble gum
like the sound of a slamming locker)
we put on our chatter
like red lipstick
with the same amount
of greasy enthusiasm
all our secret glances are pulled on
like a fishnet stocking over white thigh
oh the brittle irony
slips out
like smoke pouring from sultry lips
we are all armed
with our polysyllabic sabers
uniformed by our lust
united by our laughter
unique by our will
we march together toward
the war we cannot name
but at least we are dressed for it
--Danya Goodman, age 15
Things I Have to Tell You
Paul Hewitt
Please, sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful.
I did raise my hand.
I mean, who cares if Macbeth becomes a monster,
If Huck Finn rescues Jim,
If Willie Loman never finds happiness?
They’re just characters in books.
What have they got to do with me?
I mean, I’m never going hunting for white whales.
I’m never going to fight in the Civil War.
And I certainly don’t live in the Dust Bowl.
Tell me instead how to
Make money, pick up girls.
Then maybe I’ll listen.
You got any books that deal with real life?
--Mel Glenn, Class Dismissed II
(Freud Can Kiss My Sexually Ambiguous Arse)
we all like to strut
(squeak of black boots on yellow linoleum)
and show our teeth
in primitive smiles
(crack of bubble gum
like the sound of a slamming locker)
we put on our chatter
like red lipstick
with the same amount
of greasy enthusiasm
all our secret glances are pulled on
like a fishnet stocking over white thigh
oh the brittle irony
slips out
like smoke pouring from sultry lips
we are all armed
with our polysyllabic sabers
uniformed by our lust
united by our laughter
unique by our will
we march together toward
the war we cannot name
but at least we are dressed for it
--Danya Goodman, age 15
Things I Have to Tell You
Paul Hewitt
Please, sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful.
I did raise my hand.
I mean, who cares if Macbeth becomes a monster,
If Huck Finn rescues Jim,
If Willie Loman never finds happiness?
They’re just characters in books.
What have they got to do with me?
I mean, I’m never going hunting for white whales.
I’m never going to fight in the Civil War.
And I certainly don’t live in the Dust Bowl.
Tell me instead how to
Make money, pick up girls.
Then maybe I’ll listen.
You got any books that deal with real life?
--Mel Glenn, Class Dismissed II
Monday, April 05, 2010
opening day
Opening Day
the event
like the playoffs, all-star game, world series
a shared excitement
of fans, players, umpires, management
all in first place
no negatives
yet
all stars
on the good side of hope and glory
high hopes
soon fade
as rotator cuffs fray
knees grind with age
morale falters
but not on opening day
bodies are sound
towels fit around firm waists
dreams float in place
air is crisp, alive
the ball snaps
into leather
ash bat cracks the ball
into gaps between gazelles
sharp two-hoppers to sure-handed
six-footers
and lazy fly-balls arc high
below powder-blue skies
all is well
in a world of war
between white lines
--Dan Quisenberry
... and still my favorite:
It looked extremely rocky for the L.A. nine that day;
The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play;
So, when De Shields died at second, and Butler did the same;
Bad karma clouded the Blu-Blockers of the patrons at the game.
A few got up to do some blow, leaving there the rest;
With that hope which springs eternal within the siliconed breast;
For they thought: “If only Darryl could get a whack at that...”
They just might put their sushi down, with Strawberry at the bat.
But Piazza preceded Straw-man, and likewise so did Wallach;
And the former was still three years shy of arbitration,
and the latter was a five-and-ten man who was contractually guaranteed final approval of the teams he could be traded to;
So, on that earthquake, brushfire, mud slide, riot-torn Angelyne-billboard stricken
multitude, a deathlike silence sat;
For there seemed but little chance of Darryl getting to the bat.
But Piazza let drive a triple, to the wonderment of all;
And the inconsistent Wallach took a slider in the balls;
And after his obligatory charge to the mound to make his feelings heard;
There was Wallach safe at first, and Piazza a-huggin’ third.
Then from the jaded multitude went up a wine spritzer-soaked yell;
It rumbled off the 405 and Hollywood sign, as well;
It struck off Spago’s windows, which shook like liposuctioned fat;
For Darryl, flighty Darryl, was advancing to the bat.
There was disease, Lasorda would say weakness, in Darryl’s manner as he
twelve-stepped into place;
There was pride in Darryl’s bearing and some white stuff on his face;
Sixty thousand and one eyes were on him - okay, Peter Falk was there, it’s
Hollywood - as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Thirty thousand folks applauded, dripping DoveBars on their shirts.
Now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the smog;
And Darryl stood a-watching in a self-indulgent fog;
Close by the useless batsman the ball unheeded sped;
“I’ve seen better orbs at strip clubs,” said Darryl. “Strike one,” the umpire said.
From sky boxes stuffed with Armani suits there went up a muffled roar;
Like the whacking off of perverts in that park on the Santa Monica shore;
(Hey, I was looking for a rhyme - kill me.)
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted Kevorkian in the stands;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him, had not Darryl raised his spouse-abusing hand.
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Darryl had nearly nodded off, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”
“You suck, you worthless piece of shit!” cried the maddened thousands,
Clustered around my four-year-old son and me;
And then the echo answered: “Tu chupas, tu bueno pa’ nada pedazo de mierda!”
But one scornful look from Darryl and the fans’ inner-child anger cleared;
They saw his face grow stern and cold, like the day he smacked that homeless
guy for lookin’ at him weird;
Then they heard him whining about his 4 million per annum strain;
And knew that the chances were 2-in-10 he wouldn’t let the ball go again;
And now the obscenely overpaid 8-and-13 pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets
it go;
And now the shitty L.A. air is shattered by the farce of Darryl’s blow.
Well somewhere in this troubled land the sun is shining bright;
The Eagles have reunited, and somewhere hearts are light;
Somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville; Mighty Darryl is strung out.
--Dennis Miller, THE RANTS
the event
like the playoffs, all-star game, world series
a shared excitement
of fans, players, umpires, management
all in first place
no negatives
yet
all stars
on the good side of hope and glory
high hopes
soon fade
as rotator cuffs fray
knees grind with age
morale falters
but not on opening day
bodies are sound
towels fit around firm waists
dreams float in place
air is crisp, alive
the ball snaps
into leather
ash bat cracks the ball
into gaps between gazelles
sharp two-hoppers to sure-handed
six-footers
and lazy fly-balls arc high
below powder-blue skies
all is well
in a world of war
between white lines
--Dan Quisenberry
... and still my favorite:
It looked extremely rocky for the L.A. nine that day;
The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play;
So, when De Shields died at second, and Butler did the same;
Bad karma clouded the Blu-Blockers of the patrons at the game.
A few got up to do some blow, leaving there the rest;
With that hope which springs eternal within the siliconed breast;
For they thought: “If only Darryl could get a whack at that...”
They just might put their sushi down, with Strawberry at the bat.
But Piazza preceded Straw-man, and likewise so did Wallach;
And the former was still three years shy of arbitration,
and the latter was a five-and-ten man who was contractually guaranteed final approval of the teams he could be traded to;
So, on that earthquake, brushfire, mud slide, riot-torn Angelyne-billboard stricken
multitude, a deathlike silence sat;
For there seemed but little chance of Darryl getting to the bat.
But Piazza let drive a triple, to the wonderment of all;
And the inconsistent Wallach took a slider in the balls;
And after his obligatory charge to the mound to make his feelings heard;
There was Wallach safe at first, and Piazza a-huggin’ third.
Then from the jaded multitude went up a wine spritzer-soaked yell;
It rumbled off the 405 and Hollywood sign, as well;
It struck off Spago’s windows, which shook like liposuctioned fat;
For Darryl, flighty Darryl, was advancing to the bat.
There was disease, Lasorda would say weakness, in Darryl’s manner as he
twelve-stepped into place;
There was pride in Darryl’s bearing and some white stuff on his face;
Sixty thousand and one eyes were on him - okay, Peter Falk was there, it’s
Hollywood - as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Thirty thousand folks applauded, dripping DoveBars on their shirts.
Now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the smog;
And Darryl stood a-watching in a self-indulgent fog;
Close by the useless batsman the ball unheeded sped;
“I’ve seen better orbs at strip clubs,” said Darryl. “Strike one,” the umpire said.
From sky boxes stuffed with Armani suits there went up a muffled roar;
Like the whacking off of perverts in that park on the Santa Monica shore;
(Hey, I was looking for a rhyme - kill me.)
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted Kevorkian in the stands;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him, had not Darryl raised his spouse-abusing hand.
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Darryl had nearly nodded off, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”
“You suck, you worthless piece of shit!” cried the maddened thousands,
Clustered around my four-year-old son and me;
And then the echo answered: “Tu chupas, tu bueno pa’ nada pedazo de mierda!”
But one scornful look from Darryl and the fans’ inner-child anger cleared;
They saw his face grow stern and cold, like the day he smacked that homeless
guy for lookin’ at him weird;
Then they heard him whining about his 4 million per annum strain;
And knew that the chances were 2-in-10 he wouldn’t let the ball go again;
And now the obscenely overpaid 8-and-13 pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets
it go;
And now the shitty L.A. air is shattered by the farce of Darryl’s blow.
Well somewhere in this troubled land the sun is shining bright;
The Eagles have reunited, and somewhere hearts are light;
Somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville; Mighty Darryl is strung out.
--Dennis Miller, THE RANTS
Labels: baseball
