Sleeping in the locker room (A Letter)

Dear Sally,
The creative process, since you asked, is like living. It's like sleeping in the locker room; That's some dedication. It's the sliver of sunlight who creeps between the panes. You'll find it between not knowing what to say and having too much to say, so much that you haven't stopped to take a breath but there is still too much unsaid -- and yet, alas, you have to end somewhere.

Or is it some time, like sometime? Oh Sally, how you looked in the springtime. I know it's not proper to talk about breasts in a letter. But, as Roth wrote, "I cannot and do not live in the world of discretion, not as a writer, anyway." You know how I do admire our Jewish portents.

Breasts.

Anyway, how'd you like the tiger fight? I wish Memphis and Mizzou would do something to draw attention to the plight of our planet's actual endangered big cats. Remember in Old School when Luke Wilson's character told Will Ferrel's character to "take it easy, big cat" when he was fake-dying after being elbow-dropped by The Dean?

Regarding the ballgame, Mizzou did their best to let Memphis stay in it after going ahead 24 at one point. But for Memphis, it was too little, too late.

I would love to keep writing, but I won't. I have needs, Sally. We shall continue this correspondence when I get wings, and begin to fly. Toward you. The clouds are already becoming azure. See you soon.

Block's Party

So sir we've scheduled this outage, so you know sir uh,
syrup and your seven minutes please. Bringing returning

back, forms fold into the folio. We only party at night
bc it's black and maybe the kids won't know. The don't-
do delivery boys stroke Jemima like she likes it.

The magic circle firm inducted trainees; some wove
complex green balls, breeze. Bringit round back

& give Bridget the password: crack. Look at me I'm
irregular, rugged girls steel curls in peripheries.
Ask your friendly neighborhood marsupial, sure.

Seven minutes of early evening

I want a bitch with stiletto heels and no tears. She'll do her business and shift gears. "Want a sandwich?" She asks.

"Yes," I'll say, and just like that--ham & swiss. "Thanks baby doll." Then she'll give me a blowjob as I eat it. Afterward, she'll go home.

Such is the life of Gabe Crocker, a well-meaning gentlemen on the Upper East Side.

It is true that my fiction has no major prognosis. Just an arm with a sweatband on it and no known destination. Just floating in the reeds like an old boat. Or another type of vessel entirely.

The incalculable politics of loss. Nobody reads this stuff anyway.

An iron stove emitting heat. The sod house smelling sweetly of earth. Mother giving me a velvet bear. Emily slipping into the water like an undressing dove.

A plump robin washes himself, then preens in a nearby tree.

young women drinking

Jessica, I hardly
understand you,

said Amber,
laughing, of course.
From the other
side of the park
came sounds of
a more exciting
gathering.

James Dean, I presume

Regard the photo:
James Dean,
James Dean,
James Dean,
...
& So on, until
God himself
would erase the
"O" and thereby
become less
gentile--those
whom I have
always admired--

Oh, Daddyo,
she might have
well have said,
after she shot me,

goddam son, show me that pelican bite,
doggone mosquitoes these days
still hurt like piss-ants (what are they?
crabs?) but no longer spread malaria,
and for this, we are thankful.

That old hammer serves us again, like
neuro-marketing. It can be used for good and evil.

But I'm getting off-track. The point is this:
James Dean was a man, a bean-pole of a daddy-
dancer, a gorgeous cingulate amoeba
(America because Amerigo, Exxon &
Costco) flouting the length of every football field,
impregnating every teenage girl without foreplay
or sexual intercourse, Coca-Cola & rum,
James Dean. What else do you need to know?

twine-ball, basketball

how i met your mother
is women we haven't met yet
thinking on them (is)
how geese lay upon eggs golden

above imaginary things, in this case
is nothing more fictional, but a mind:
mine. growing which isn't growing but
unraveling like twine becoming

unraveled twine,
instead of a ball. this happens.

Pitt vs. OSU; thoughts

I raise & switch up my game
like monopoly on a lazy Susan
feeling lazy, Sue, Xan-
ax the spearthrower day
travels like no dribbles
THERE IS NO CRYING IN BASEBALL
or the basket ball, the sport's
game, the lion's not tame if it's
Walk-In-Lay-Down, crabgrass weed
chores, pull it out, throw 'em
down, composte for the future;
the biggest plants grow out of
detritus, despite us and all we do
to keep our surroundings sanitized
like antispectic mouthwash or pre-frosh.

sheer feeling

is sheer healing
with sidebear buddies growing
upon this weedy pasture owing
to the muddy ground a home
to grow in kneeling
where nobody understands
which is right here, always.

stop burning bridges:

you travel cross them. whoa, one thing

will put you out. you need to break free

everytime you break free. i would have

given all i had, apparently. seconds

bridge digits/those things we did

but did we ever possess. i wish i hadn't

almost done anything. this is general, sorry,

try this: a torch that can't burn anything.

the anemones haven't done shit to anybody.

bridges need you to need them. they're only

behind you part of the time. connections can

fray but not break. there are pieces of you

beyond your reach. i hope this is okay.

a glimmer in the breakers; i break open.

The one where I punch Cob

Today I punched an obnoxious kid in the face while playing pickup ball at Illinois' own CRCE. It wasn't undeserved. After drawing first blood (the field goal variety) on a breakaway steal, I remarked that the ball felt off-balance. One kid on the other team began complaining, saying, "It's a basketball. Let's just play basketball. It's just a basketball." And so forth (every sentence ended with: "...basketball.")

"Look man," I practically burst out, "please don't start talking shit already. The basketball is just off-balance." One former game against this fellow had demonstrated that he was a little bitch, so I decided it was best to nip this in the bud; plus I was merely ensuring that we would all be playing with a superior ball and thus enjoy a superior game. The only appropriate words besides none would be those of thanksgiving.

Instead the lovely gent--I'll name him Cob--kept mumbling afoul. They missed a shot and on our possession I drove hard to the basket and tipped in my own rebound in his eye.

"That's just basketball," I said, meant as a mild but potent rebuke. Without warning, he caught the ball and pegged me directly in the nose.

Taken off-guard, I fell to the ground. But in that moment--and for the first time in my adult life--I knew I was about to punch somebody in the face. So I got up and cracked him one good on his left cheekbone.

My two friends Dane and K. got in his face too after that, but he kept running his mouth. He soon irritated Dane, who is usually very even-tempered and moderate.

"We can handle this like men and go outside to straighten things out," said Dane furiously, "or we can handle it like you--like a girl--and file assault charges on you." (Cob said he was going to tattle on us in the midst of his continued trash-talking). The guy likes to talk but not act... sickening. In any case he eventually slunk out with his friend in tow. His other teammates had already mysteriously disappeared without saying anything... quite strange.

Then we waited for a while for anyone to play us... the bloodsport interaction (or was it merely a dust-up?) didn't exactly inspire immediate competition.

Eventually we took on five semi-fluent Chinese youth who traveled, carried, double-dribble and grunted a lot. We almost lost but pulled it out twice in two sweaty, God-awful ugly games.

A 9-Line Summons Unto Glorious Dong

perhaps i will go along with what you posit:
that goblins protect the gym in the closet
but if this were true, whence do theirs paws at
go the typewriter time when sentence's clause at

all just completely falls apart like a k-mart
plastic bag full of dime bags and crack
and bad videos become words like subject
verb object projecting constant
awe and shock to one and all.

Three of my favorite things

1.
The large fountain out front runs exclusively on champagne. At the stroke of midnight, each night, a pair of beautiful European blondes snake into the water—nude, of course—and blow bubbles while giggling. They are strictly instructed not to touch each other, a rule they usually break.

2.
At the top of the east castle is a pair of hobgoblins. They are exercise maniacs and you’ll usually find that they are operating on a number of synthetic steroids. If they were tested for blood doping, they would fail. But they know their business, and absolutely nobody is allowed into the top secret gym within the closet’s unassuming confines.

3.
Frank was mildly racist. He loved a good poker game and never shaved without taking 50 milligrams of speed. This would get him really revved up, which was a good idea if you wanted Frank to accomplish anything. Usually he just lay in bed, motionless, and moaned.