30 Sep 2014, 2:56pm
Writing
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Self portrait in limestone

Pinecones
Wasabi
Bermuda grass

Could this be the feeling of soccer, in September
I warned you
Poetry is not good enough
One must have practices
And practices
Practicing is what one does to completion, always
The only thing, perhaps
To alleviate boredom

And competition
Want to be a maestro
Practice
Practice is a mayhem in an everlasting karma
Practice to hymn
Practice in reverence I planted these fields for them to be practicing on

Can I confide in you
I understand the game only enough to know that
Counting stats are stupid
It is the beautiful game
How many lines or goals
Assists, time of possession
Shots on
Headers
Tackles
Corner shots
Goal kicks
Penalty shots
Word count
Words matter not in the final tally
What matter if it be rhymed or unrhymed
Free or metered
In my language or yours
Rap, a song, old epic
Dishwater
As an expression of the righteous
Of the just
It is the beautiful game

We can’t abide by any biting
Or
Flops or
Bad sportsmanship
Name calling
Detrimental head butts
Misogyny
Wife beating especially
Suspend them for the rest of their lives
Careful all you shirt taker-offers
Paeans to mistress writers
When you use a trope to trope more than once you might incur the wrath of the magi
And you make the rest of us look bad
Be honest
Play the beautiful game

Above all
Defend the goal
Kick it out
Kick it
Don’t let that little pelota interfere with your field of vision
Take the mountain’s view of it
Kick it kick it
Beat that sucker

On these fields these days it is good to know that someone is having a good time
On the grass
He is racing with all his heart
He is or she is
I refuse to say they when I only mean one
What is wrong with the singular they
Everything

One doesn’t know

One doesn’t know what the score is
Couldn’t care less
Isn’t bothered by people
Or dogs
Clown faces
Grown up men in dark lawn chairs stuck on the sidelines
Frowning and yelling
From a Vicarious position

One is running
Is hanging out in the grass which tickles
which is cool
Where it is still of an evening

And the grass, the eagle-eyed green succulent go-getter
Is munching munching
All the great nutrients
Deep in itself

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