Poetry: August 22 , 2007
Running back bounces outside
It’s what he do, he do it all day
He do it to get paid, but he’d
Do it to pray, most of all play
The game is in his genes,
His bitches in the stands.
Pearls pinch the tongues
Of oysters, the ‘back
Makes his cuts between
The strands, and tutoring
The young first round
Draft pick, linebacker
Who pressed for
Eyes darting, eyes stark still
The running back draws even with
His breath, road-kill between he and goal
A rock in a sandstorm, a fist in a verb to be
The exclamation to the long drive,
A dancer for the claims of victory.
Long held in imagery
As perpetual psychic injury
As suspicious rival to the symmetry
Of a so far fabled career, but those
Who run the ball can know the shadow
Behind every tear that dances with the
Ligament there, but most of all
The sacrifice is to forget what
Wishes to be remembered, the fear.
It takes Zen mind to block and tackle
The pain when game moves into higher gear.
This hold-out was a major hassle
But management and we had to tussle
,wrestle , sweat, pick and roll cause
It’s like this, ”I Gotta Get Paid”
I got my years, I got my dollars,
So now, we can play. After all
I am the playbook, the quarterback
Gets to keep from the dimes that
I own these fools
The DB is hopping
The DL’s are shopping
To see if they can flush
Me right. I’ve got sight
And will send false signals
That I will fall for trap
Once in end-zone
I will trade in the ball
For a butt slap and head to
The sidelines where I trade
My helmet for a soft cap.
The ‘ouch’ beneath the fumble pile
Is a cold initiation into the tumbled wilds
Of pirates using athletic guile to scratch
Poke and inflict hard memory that match
Bruises to their chosen patch, and leaves
Fresh points for style. Who has the ball
Has new life, who has the leaping,
Exuberant men, has the game about
To come to them.
Only 6 yards for the record
Only 6 yards to a new contract
Only 7 yards and we win.
That is what I call a win-win
For all parties.
We started 1- 3.
We started from old history
Then made it up as we
Went along, adding new
Chapters and slapping teams
Up, we went from league
Buttercup to wave riders
Of much bigger seams
We found out that we had
‘gumption’ and took the
‘ass’ out of former assumptions.
Here I am, about to bust 6
And this could be ‘dewey’s
Last game. We came out
Of college together, he the third
Round, me the fourth, and a good
Friend and lineman is he. He gets
Paid to protect the ‘blindside’
He gets drunk to project his mean side.
I knew him when just a farmboy
Fresh from the daisies of Kansas
And I a fumble prone prodigy
Eager to find out what a man was.
“Man, this coach is just driving me insane”
I’m really in pain ,but like it’s my fault that he’s
Insecure and never led a team before
So I get constant brain from staff and reporters
(those ones that harass) and from society queens
Who would throw themselves at what would
Pursue their daughters. I brought the team this
Far when it sputtered from the gate. The coach
Has one season left, one season too late.
First in round one
Number 24 at last
In the ‘bigs’, and
Expected to carry
The club to the next
Level (he’ll excel)
The cobra in the clutches
Of lightning, swerving
Wildly to its static
Humming pouncing form
His mother’s name was Doris
He says his father’s name is
I’ve got this much space to score, and no more, we just need 4.
…and now for my signature move
I’ll feign left, look right, hesitate
and go left and leave some player
grabbing grass and calling out
the name of his prayer book
god. They say I cut back like
Sayers, Gale. I carry the ball
like a lunch pail and punch
the line like I punch the clock
Every fall my tendons turn to
pistons and I remember my
father, and his life on the docks.
8 years, they say I’m slowing
yet, I find the goal line as much
as before, when as a rookie I broke
old records, and brought in more
people to see me score.
Now management has to justify
the money spent on the latest
hype, another ‘back breathing
hard on mine, due to the weight
of the contract signed. So my
game has got to testify that I
haven’t lost a step, to keep
Junior on the sidelines , I run
on more than ‘rep’, I run
to keep my team inside the
winners simple guidelines.
No player loses a step who does not lose a little will
No player fails to dominate without the urge to kill
The little militant angry voice that sounds like our old man
Never grateful, never kind and always pushing, always pushing
I stay a step ahead of it, this is the cause that fuels the wits of
Rushing, rushing, rushing.
A ‘dump’ pass
and 5 yards for
the QB’s completion
record and a 1 st down
I drop the pass. I return
to the huddle and say
I once dated his sister.
He is too classy to
say much about it
but, she will call me
and give me shit.
Would it be wise to receive another?
No, it would be time consuming and wasteful.
The white guitar fixation is your mother.
The ones you have are pretty useful
And none too bashful.
Take them and leave the rest to ‘bother’.
Stadiums, soon departed of cheers
And whistles from the wind and not men
Filling them, will be in my mind replaced
By the sound of soft waves dampening my face
And the smell of the sea and its creatures
I’ve rushed for over 10,000 yards, now
I retire my life to its bonus features
I never got the ring that I envisioned
I’ll meditate on this while I’m fishing.
Wow, first day of camp!
No one thought I’d make it.
I didn’t come this far just
to make the team, I came
to make the team understand.
Fuck an endorsement
and being some plantation
nigger for shoes. I came to
endorse pain, disaster. I
endorse a foot deep in your
butt and I aim to massage your
face with my cleats. I will
make you look bad in front
of your spawn and ring your
bell to announce’ game time’
is on. Endorse these knuckles,
one causes the bends, the
other bruises and buckles.
I was a young boy when
I saw Randy ‘Sweetback’
Walker score 5 touchdowns
in a game. His Bethune-Cookman
team playing a conference rival
and needing all of ‘sweetback’s’
running to keep them in the race
he wore number 20 if I recall
correctly and crimson, burgundy
were the colours of the fall and
the ‘Wildcats’ jerseys exactly
he ran until my mind had taken
root with the winners urge in me,
corralling my horses long forsaken
that day will remain in my spleen
long after the wounds that these
eyes have seen, become but springboards
for future dreams. That Saturday, ‘sweet-back’
found the seams and ran towards ragged
daylight. Dogged and rugged , dodgy and
swift, feet fertile like mercury in a girdle.
4 th and 6,we must go
for the first down
or: Game Over.
naturally a pass
I expect to immigrate
over the grass, and
I will even run over
God. He has given
to me, this magnificent
bod. The weak side
corner has pre-pimped
his move, I will run
straight at him and shove
him deep into the end-zone
and 2 bitches diving off
Forget pain, forget fatigue,
I’m about to run this corner
out of the league.
We won! 26-21
And I have a date with a hottie,
Gonna pull rabbits and cabbage
From the depths of her body
And dig deep worms to go fishing
She looks like an Aztec priestess
Which is fine ‘cause I’m an ass technician.
I was not the
First round bonus baby
I was more like null and void
I was practice squad wearing crazy high number, I carried
water when not holding lumber
and sweating my spot on the bench.
Now it’s my pearlies on the little screen
advertising and things and moving the team
down the frontlines, now it’s my time, and
yes I practiced my touchdown dance.
I may never again have this chance to
hustle, shuffle and bleed. This was all
the motivation I need and my speed
has kept pace with my greed, but I don’t
play for bonus. I play so that commissioner
may crown us.
COPYRIGHT SANANDA MAITREYA
MILANO 22nd AUGUST 2007
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED