Sunday, January 27, 2013

Carding


A rainbow spread of
Serial transgression

The cheery yellow flag of
Minor sins:
The blade that won’t
Hold weight
The cord unblessed by armorer, the
The hand carelessly strayed into
Forbidden ground
Absconding from the strip
Without a pass
Silken locks burst loose and
Tumbling down the back

The rosy blush of shame for
Greater gaffes:
Grasping at the blade as it collides with hand
Faking cramps
Lurking in anonymity, lamé conspicuously
Blank
Innocently shutting down opponent’s march by
Timing out…the floor
Raking in the dough by advertising Badger Balm
Upon the sleeve (I wish)
Delivering a bell guard to the snoot
(No matter how provoked)

And Blackest Black, Beyond the Pale—the Deepest Dark of Night:
Sneaking a mic into
The mask
Balking at a foe too loathsome to
Endure
Throwing the game
Withholding courtesy
Trying to cause harm

The system generously grants penance to
Bystanders needing grace as well:
Continued catcalls,
Obstreperous support or
(Ignoring reprimand)
Repeated hassling of the ref

All these penalties comprise
A winning hand
Tucked into blazer pocket
Ready to deploy
Elevating our authorities above the
Hoi polloi

Nostalgia


Brown bread smells like loam, like
Beer
Like garden mulch

Pumpernickel’s sour snap
Waits for mustard bite

Rye’s seedy strength, bearing up the
Fatty weight of beef

Dense focaccial spring
Olive-studded
Thick with cheese

Dour Russian black bread begs for
Sweet butter, thinly spread
Radish slices, salt

Supple silken warmth of fresh tortilla
Dunked in guac

Sugared crisp of fruit-nut bread
Thinly sliced in toasted bliss

Even pita’s cardboard mimicry

Flood my recollection with each step
Down the bakery aisle

Past the cornucopian cases
Breathing deep of wheat

Condemned to timid crumble, unsupported loft
I devour the past

Monday, December 31, 2012

Telling Tales


Truth is fabricated
Piece by piece
From scraps of probability
Hints of what is possible
Plausible causality

“Truth be told” indeed
Telling forges truth
The facts we choose, the details we
Discard

Especially the tales we
Weave about ourselves
Bespoke epics
Contingent facts looped into
Cogent narrative
Forging our own fates

Since I get to storyboard my life
Why be content with mundane imperfection?
Why not lineate myself
As gimpy hero
Hephaestus or
Bellerophon
Lamed by my ambitions
Still in quest of
Small but epic feats?

Knowing this, I start my journal of 2013, writing future states that
I’ll be happy to have seen

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Close Call, Part 1

It's the art of

Seeing the periphery, the center
And the trailing edge
Hand and tip and wrist and
Toe

Knowing with bone certainty 
Exactly what transpired 
Without knowing how you 
Know

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Scaling


Once they’re hooked
Beginners start to browse the uniforms
Coveting their own clean whites
A pristine mask
Unwrinkled glove

I also sense them
Shopping for appropriate ambitions
Trying on their goals and
Testing fit

That’s a beauty of our sport
Each of us can find a dream that’s
Comfortably beyond our normal reach
But not beyond our grasp

Some aim for the top while others
Strive with all they have to
Make a touch in every bout

Some scale the alphabet while teammates
Revel in their classless state
Youngsters spurt and test the limits of their
Ambling limbs their
Newfound strength
Veterans retrench and renegotiate the
Definition of success

Some drift away despite their magic touch, their
Grace—unfulfilled by their unearned success
Others struggle now and evermore
Addicted by the lure of what they never quite achieve
But might, the next time out

The lesson? If you find your joy in battle turning to frustration
Look within—the cure may lie in tweaking expectations

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Recalibration


I can no longer keep a
Warrior’s pace
Always pushing past my limitations
Sore and tired but
Content, confident that
Pain is only strength in embryonic form

The signals have been switched the
Rules upended, now my
Lexicon is speaking ancient tongues

An ache or sore is warning that my
Shelf life is exceeded, boundaries o’er-reached
Reminder that my expiration date is, damn,
Too close

I am no longer over-engineered
But merely overwhelmed

My homework? Studying the
Tensile strength of aging tendons, pinpointing the
Threshold past which quintile muscles cannot go
Learning leisured speed and lazy durability
Recognizing that I can’t outrun the young