No Joy In Mythville

Pundits will argue
(Though I tend to disagree)
That Casey shoulda' bunted
And not swung at strike three
But for all the verse's best intentions,
For its limitations, let us not dwell,
Because Icarus was on deck
With an average in day games
At below-zero, bloody hell


Opening Day

A shuddering light, the bleeding light of Fall...
The manager, owner and general manager,
attended by a host of legal personnel,
enter through the weak beams
of the sad spotlight,
weary with entropy,
wheeling a body bag of Leda
through a side door
and into a shaft, no,
a back hallway elevator,
the shredded remains
of a losing season

But in March, no, April shall come one child,
though the Swans could use possibly two,
and that one child shall own the golden arm,
kicked from high in the womb
of the team mother

At a quarter a two,
lo, she shall rule the mound;
she shall unveil such wondrous things,
such wonder in the shudder
of the team monther, so sprung,
by the brute seed, the cup of coffee,
oh caffeine king, oh father,
as to make all dimpled chad
doubters believe in spring


Transmutation

Turn the bad into good.
Glass into sand.
The agent, the pulverizer.
Beat up the plastic.
Improve the soul.
Trauma seperator.
Matter turning to smoke.
Three moon shots separatin'
nine stages to nirvana,
seven steps to satan.
Think of performance art
and persecution
as one. Fear nothing
and nothingness will run.
Embrace everything,
everything will come.
Leave this place clean
as when you came.

Reflective sand,
driveways paved
with Cibola gold,
mustang mosaic,
round Indian shield...
creativity expands,
censor's cage contracts,
the tao of two is whole.

High performance standards
increase the odds of survival.
O protected one, carry us,
to a higher plane.
While it may not be apparent,
everything is in order.

Mobius strip, everything eternal,
ebbs out, then in, then out again,
the feedback loops gain force
or devour, depending upon
the potency--or, poison,
of the form. Interfere,
as little as possible.
Live in the present.
Study the past.
Know the future,
nature, soul fire,
is a never ending cycle,
real time is irrelevant.

Strip mine Mobius:
Reduce, solve, practice
what is preached.
Wear often,
a plastic pop bottle hat,
corrugatd cardboard shirt,
shoes and old rubber tires,
for a head like an alien.
Who says Augustus
would never amount
to anything?

Lascerated soul, bloody heart,
righteous math that counts
a living hell. Too much input,
output, weak. I take and take,
and then I take more,
throwing cig butts
into the forest of my brain.
Please, Taiowa, please,
forgive me for setting
a fire in my soul.