A poem, second third draft:

Take down these next ten digits:

[Phone number]
[Repeated. Faster.]

That,
my friends,
is your muthafuckin' bat phone.
A direct line to dial
before the next time you head to hit the [Name of Location]
because I
am the wingman.
Here to help you procure all the pussy
I've never been able to get for myself.
And I know that probably pissed off half the women in the audience,
but I'd remind you that one day
you're going to go out for that good dick
and I'm not going to judge you then.
I might even
be able
to help.
I'm available to push, prod, nudge
and be the grand fucking facilitator
without a single soul sensing a thing.

Providing open shots
like Steve Nash gets the Suns
carrying conversations about nothing
like a master of my domain
and, yes,
fucking
fat
friends.

NOTE:
There remains a two-bagger minimum.
I've still got some standards.

Keeping the conversation
cohesive and compelling
is par for the course,
but the Phase 2 package
means remembering that time you saved the sea lions in Alaska

...

There's no pinnipeds in the Arctic?
Well, fuck you and your marine biology!
... I meant penguins.
Ladies love the lil guys.

And it's obscure knowledge like that
that will allow me to cock lead block
right through the heart of the defense
breaking open a lane
for backfield penetration
bandying stiff arms about
as you hit holes
without anyone
deflecting a pass.

This is a special set of skills
acquired only after years of watching
that guy
get the girl,
before becoming cool belatedly
and remaining unable to convert the knowledge
into succ-sex
in spite of myself.
When you're accustomed to being best friends,
it's hard to treat women like conquests
because you've seen what they look like defeated
and that's not something you're ready to be responsible for.

So I've made every effort
only to break hearts
that will remember me fondly
as I mutually mack it for everyone else,
offering a steady supply of situational setups,
making the magic happen
because maybe it means
this time
they don't fuck it up.

And it's easier to have that faith in others
than change anything about myself,
a me never remembered
unless I'm run into,
but then showered with smiles
and even some shots,
because if the situation went sour,
well,
it wasn't my fault
and God -
she had sooo much fucking fun that night
and totally wants to do it again,
obvi,
and needs my number like, yesterday.

This is a fine plan
until she shows up with someone else
and can't remember my name
at the introduction.

But I'll smile
and find a partner for pool
because maybe it means
this time,
she won't fuck it up

if only she gets a little encouragement
from someone willing to draw away enemy fire
even as it blows up
in his face.

Labels: poetry, Relationships, The Game

A poem, third fourth draft:

It’s okay.
The Grand National Nightmare is over –
Barry Bonds FINALLY hit those fucking home runs.
Now we can move on to hating Michael Vick
because electrocuting puppies is waaay worse than doing steroids.
And since he happens to be black,
we won’t have to demonize any white athletes.

But first,
Picture four friends.
They are 12, and walking back from school.
They see a girl beating down some dude,
yelling to give back her headphones,
encouraged by the friends that surround them.
One of her people
says the white kid
is laughing at her.

Three friends are named 'Aamir, Shapel and Kareem.
The fourth
is Benjamin.

He is surrounded,
and hit twice
and they laugh.
They take the Yankee hat Kareem just bought
because they won the World Series
and the rest of the city
is celebrating.

Because of this
you know in your stomach
that when a friend cracks wise
about his latest DWB,
it's not just an attempt at black humor.

We are the sons and daughters of the Civil Rights generation,
and for the first time
America is exploring how it works
when the dominant popular culture
is colored.

Our poetry has become Def,
Jammed into breakbeats
and sped-up soul samples,
stomped around in Air Force Ones
and steel-toed Timberland boots,
our flat-brimmed fitteds sittin' sideways
bling so bright you can see it in the dictionary.

But all the ice shines cold light
in distracting directions
and the snow trapped
in the mainstream
makes music like Minstrels.

These are some things you probably know:

Barry Lamar Bonds.
Leftfield.
San Francisco Giants.
Black.

Already established as the best player of his generation,
Bonds hits 351 home runs after the age of 35.
He collects four straight MVPs.
This is one more than anyone has ever earned
in their entire career.
He is named in a federal investigation
regarding illegal performance-enhancing drugs.
As is Gary Sheffield,
black,
a training partner who couldn't keep up with the regimen.
Reporters seek Sheffield for comment.
Two books are written.
The world wants its records back.

These are some things you should know if you don't:

William Roger Clemens
Pitcher
New York Yankees
White

A one-time phenom thought to be on the decline,
Clemens wins four Cy Young Awards for three teams
after the age of 34.
This is one less than anyone has ever earned
in their entire career.
He is named in a federal investigation
regarding illegal performance enhancing drugs.
As is Andy Pettitte,
white,
a training partner who couldn't keep up with the regimen.
Reporters pass Pettitte by for comment.
There are no books,
and Clemens gets paid $18 million
to start the season two months late,
and only join the team on days he is pitching.

Sports
they can be at the forefront of society.
Baseball broke the color barrier
seven seasons before
Brown beat the Board of Education
And now that Tony Dungy and Lovie Smith
squared off as coaches in the Super Bowl,
their landmark leadership
showcased on sports' most spectacular stage,
maybe
just maybe
we’re prepped for a black President.
In politics.

We are
Team America.
Fuck.
Yeah.
Just remember,
don't hate the players,
hate the games
we keep playing
with race.

Because until I can’t update this poem with parables,
we’re still separate
on unequal fields.

Labels: Barry Bonds, baseball, poetry, race, Roger Clemens