This wasn’t what I expected to draw me into blogging tonight, but life is funny that way.


The Giants climb down swiftly from the Rockies’ dizzy heights;
The Dodgers always flinch, still without trolleys in their sights.
The Mariners seek Marlins, but must fight Pirates instead.
The Diamondbacks rove underfoot; so do Sox White and Red.
Since the Royals give them power to preserve the public peace,
The Rangers delegate it, calling the PC police
Who, once alerted, start tracking down the Indians and Braves.
As the Angels sing their harmonies about power that saves,
The Padres cast out Devils from the now-more-blessed Rays
(The Cardinals don’t help, but fly with Orioles and Blue Jays.)
Both Twins make twice the trouble for the Brewers at their bars,
The Astros seem to seek a noun, but gaze up at the stars.
The Phillies, likewise adjectival, might just run like horses;
Though Cubs are hibernating, Tigers might gnaw them for courses.
The Reds in turn just burn with pride, unless they’re commie spies,
In which case the Yankees will deal with them, which could prove unwise.
The Nationals would help out, but they’re missing Montreal.
The Met(ropolitans) have found a city to play ball;
But only the Athletics look in shape to play some games.
Which is why it’s just as well that they’re just mascots, not real names.


Tell me what you want from me
All that I should do or be
Next time I am what I was.
Tell me what to do because
I do not know what is right
I’m not like you, I’m not bright.
Tell me how I shouldn’t count
Any summitting amount.
Tell me how I shouldn’t add
All the totals that I had.
Tell me how I must subtract
What is myth from what is fact.
Tell me not to multiply
Joy increasing, balls that fly.
Tell me how I must divide
Myself from what might bring pride
Because it still might bring shame,
Tell me to ignore the game.
Tell me I control the fate
Of the future, with force great,
So if we get something wrong
It’s since I followed along.
Tell me that my job is large.
Tell me that I am in charge.
I will know what to do then
Next time I’m seven again.

more steroid users’ names leaked?

There are two types of people in this world
(i would have said
had i wished to

the shallow
and the deep

The shallow take a game of no import,
Give meaning to it, and call it a sport.
Take words that sound the same and make a song
Take ideals and call some right and some wrong.
They did for years, not knowing any worse
Or better; rigid morals, rigid verse.


the world

fell apart

and they were supplanted from the places that mattered
when the dead ball era gave way to lively batters
after the world was torn, and poets changed
ignoring conventions useless strange


to modernity

now they are deep, the poets
needing no useless fetters

how they feel

and the ones who are aware of this divide
(smart enough to know)
are the deep ones


For me it always will come back to numbers.
I was only a child that summer
Knowing no better, smart but far dumber
Than the deep. In the paper every day
I read statistics, then learned of the play.
First just a tally, then something more
Real people striving beyond the score.
Real people, I learned, the heroes who awed


ultimately flawed.

There are moralizers shaking impotent fists
Sighing for a past they’re too young to have missed
Brainwashed by nostalgia. The past may be checkered
But does it matter when each old-time record
Can be traced back, and forward to today?
That’s why we have to all play the same way.
No cheating, no distorting this succession
It must be one continuous progression.

there are the deep too
they have to
nothing can matter
but if they have nothing else
nothing to hold onto in a time like this
they have themselves
they know
that they are the smart ones
what those pitiful fools
will never be

But what if I was smart enough to know
That I was shallow? What if I could see
The thoughts the deep abandoned long ago
Were timeless, and the ones that spoke to me?

Then I would turn within myself and seal
Myself in an ivory tower
If  nothing else, the numbers would be real
Whatever the source of their power.

And I would be as shallow as they came
Although I’d know that I was shallow. It
Might not count for much as I watched the game
Enjoying each simple, meaningless hit.

But it would count, and it would be enough.
When heroes fall, and no one speaks for you–
Neither mourners nor modernists–it’s tough
But I speak for myself, for I have to.