Done part 1

got my chapbook all printed up...im excited

Hats Off

Practice always left so suddenly.

Every individual moment lasted forever,

yet clustered together

hours came and went.

Taking a knee,

or a "v-sit"

or having to stand to prove you weren't tired--

above jello legs

and collapsing lungs--

was a stronger sign 

that practice was over

than the sleeping sun

or the black that rolled over sky.

The walk back to the locker room

was slower than the walk out

because part of me never wanted to take the pads off.

There was no life outside of football:

I ate because football made me hungry

showered because football made me dirty

started homework after 8 because football stole my time

and fell to sleep soon after

because football usually exhausted.

I woke up an did it again

despite how many different ways

I told myself and my teammates that I didn't want to.

Deep down, I always wanted to.

There was only one year where I was a star,

12 lousy games out of too many to sit and count,

when football felt like a calling.

Would I do it again?

Sign my life away

in order to give up constant pressures about sex

and drinking

and graduating

and being an adult,

I couldn't answer.

My time spent was spent

it would have passed regardless

so letting it pass behind bars

was just as good as any other way.

Hats On

When I used to go to my locker--

after school

or after a long rest after morning practice

or before the birds told us it was morning--

there was always a countdown.

It was either "a few more days of camp"

or "one more day til Saturday (Friday in high school)"

or "three hours til I get to go back to bed".

Putting on pants over a spandex girdle,

shoving my feet into pre-tied cleats,

strapping on shoulder pads,

mindless tasks before heading out to the grass.

I liked to be alone--

call me weird

or observant--

because it felt right. 

I always felt just a little uncomfortable

and so I knew everything was ok.

We would congregate before practice--

freshman with freshman

running backs and running backs

offense and offense

defense and defense--

and bullshit.

Waiting for the coaches to come out,

to tell us to circle up

or take a knee

or line up on the "gold line",

this was what playing football was about.

Currier

He moved me
from San Diego
to Kirksville
in two months flat
via telephone.

His deliveries were consistent,
if anything,
2 and 9
2 and 9.
What a way to end your career.

He brought a team of bulldogs
to a jungle,
unprepared,
and it showed.
77 to 7 proves
Gorillas have no mercy.

He hand delivered

my disdain for football

with a grin.

He married a Currier
and she delivered their third child
while he was delivering a special package
to that cute receptionist.

He brought in dozens of coaches

who fled

because they weren't bound

by scholarships.

Hickory stick--lost in transport.

Winning seasons--who put that "s" there?

If only they had seen the big

return to sender

sign that was written on the faces

of dozens of players and coaches who left

and the "we don't want him" scream

that our mostly empty stadium chanted.

Title

I'm thinking of naming my Chapbook 

Concussed: and the poetry of Football

tell me what you think, I'll be expecting as many comments as the rest of my work has garnered

Towel Push

Holding a towel against the hardwood floor--

At 5'9'' real height

(5'10'' roster height)--

I found out that,

at the diagonal,

a basketball court is about 25 strides.

Lengthwise,

the court is about 22 strides.

I found this out (5 times in 30 minutes)

since Lorenzo was a running back

and every running back got punished

if one of us missed two meetings.

Even after he quit.

No Excuse

Some stereotypes are true.

No exaggeration needed,

my coach really said this 

in the middle of a 530 am 

running session,

"Pick it up...you guys wanna be

2 and 9 again

or worse

1 and 10

or worse

0 and 11

or worse

fuckin

6 and 5?

Cuz I don't!"

Superman

The tape stops

"Superman doesn't get tackled...

and he doesn't run out of bounds.

He doesn't show off after a nine yard run

and cost his team 15 yards!

He doesn't drop balls

just because he lost them

in the 

FUCKING STADIUM LIGHTS!"

The tape starts up again

(in insubordinate silence)

how do YOU know?

Faster

Have you ever run so fast that you felt untouchable?

So fast that you pass the world by

and your eyes retreat to the back of their sockets?

Have you ran so fast that you felt you were alone

and screaming

without sound?

So fast you had finally reached, "fast enough"?

Well, according to coach, neither had I.

Green Paint

Every year it's the same thing:
a flyer in the locker
a raised sense of awareness
constant chants "Get the Stick!"

The place for the stick
at our school
is a dusty grave.

The closest we ever got
to the stick
was a touchdown,
that should have been prevented,
with 11 seconds left in the game.

The fresh green paint
amongst the sweaty white jerseys,
as we watched in black and purple,
didn't have a smell.

It was ok though
because none of us had ever seen the stick in purple
and so it was comfortable in green.

Onlookers

To those
who watch you hobble around,
a bruised tailbone
is the same as hemorrhoids.

Coach Keola

...made his son wear 5lb plates
under his thigh pads
so he was "heavy" enough to play.

...shimmied way up that tree
barehanded.

...ran us 6 sprints after
we couldn't see the painted yard lines
and then got mad,
if we stopped too short.

...had calves shaped like
jelly beans that were the size
of a baby antelope's head.

...told us to wear a piece of tape
on our left index finger
on game day,
to make sure we were listening to what he said.

...would allow us to guzzle water
in more than ample amounts
so that someone would throw up
by the end of practice.

...reminded me of
Mr. Miyagi
If Mr. Miyagi was a pop warner football coach.

...probably still smells like grass
and old footballs.

Momentum

He has you reeling

in a good way,

"Yea

Fuck Washburn!"

"Those Ichabods think that we came here to lose well I'll

tell you what, No sir! Not Today!"

Steam builds as the locomotive

turns the corner.

We are one collective pulse.

There is an allure today

something in the air

his presence is so strong.

All of us sitting there

in white with purple trim

we all feel it.

For five foot seven

he seems so tall.

Pudgy has morphed into a proud stout.

His voice gains momentum, boisterously 

destroying the tracks of doubt that lay before us.

"They don't think we can do it.

They got us losing 28-0.

Fuck that!"

Then he tries to rip the newspaper,

forgetting that it's laminated,

and the train screeches to a familiar halt.

Drug Testing

When the NCAA drug tests you,

it's at six in the morning.

As soon as your eyes open you have to pee

but you realize that you can't

because you have to take a "test"

hooray!

The trip from the house

to the stadium

is the hardest part

because everything makes you want to pee:

the slight drizzle in the air

the sprinklers

the man on the side of the road peeing.

Against the cold metal chair

in the team room

all you can think about is getting in the bathroom,

but you have to wait

since there is only one NCAA representative

and 10 randomly selected teammates.

Your turn finally comes

and you head to the stall

to pee when he says 

"no I have to watch".

Afterward,

on the way back to bed,

you wonder if his job

is entry level

or somewhere high above the glass ceiling.

Week 6 readings

While doing my laundry...

I mean while sitting down and devoting deep thought and contemplation about the poets we were assigned, while I was at the laundromat, I have this to say:

Ted Berrigan-

I really enjoyed "Words for Love" especially the lines "At night, awake, high on poems, or pills or simple awe that loveliness exists, my lists flow differently." The poet seems enamored with lovely things rather than love itself and this was an unexpected twist to what I was expecting. There is a slight over-romantic feel and the poem ends on a somewhat somber note. "Bean Spasms" definitely uses full advantage of field-composition and the disjunctive nature of the poem makes it hard to follow. 

Joseph Cervalo-

"Geological Hymn" feels like the theme lead on in the first sentence carries throughout. The nature imagery is very vivid but it comes from a space that seems to be irrelevant. There is consistency within the poem, not the type of consistency that I particularly enjoy, but it is definitely a running theme. "Pregnant, I Come" is a weird take on procreation or pregnancy and I don't think I have too much of a response to it. Use a condom when you are drinking, write poetry instead.

Bill Berkson-

In "Rebecca Cutlet" I found the last stanza to be the most alluring. It was very Being John Malkovich-y and I loved the description of the moist shaft that is caving in. "Melting Milk" was definitely not my cup of tea. It seemed like there were a lot of tangents within the poem and even after a few readings I couldn't get a solid grasp of a theme.

Clark Coolidge-

"Brill" and "Styro" were both all over the page, literally, but I found it easier to follow Styro probably because it was shorter. I'm not a big proponent of this style of poetry but am understanding to the experiment. I tried to read "On Introduction of the Hand" but looks deceived. Though that piece looked like more coherent phrases, each sentence is dribble. It might as well be thrown around the page like the others. I did enjoy "Noon Point" probably because before the second through fifth sentences confused me, the first sentenced lassoed me in with a chuckle.

Ron Padgett-

"Wonderful Things" and "Big Bluejay Composition" are stylistically intimidating if the reader isn't a fan of field composition, but after reading Wonderful Things, I learned that they weren't too bad. They could be rearranged to fit the more traditional poetic form, but Wonderful Things worked well for me as it was arranged. "Nothing in That Drawer" is unique and the shape of the poem is what is most alluring. The message is simple: it is an analogy for the endless struggle of benevolence vs. self entitlement in the 13th century Roman Priesthood; or something like that. "Falling in Love in Spain or Mexico" seemed like an exercise for Alysia's chapbook.

Lorenzo Thomas-

Thomas-Tommy...LT-TL...come on! Too easy. I loved the sarcasm in the piece and the sense of scrutiny toward poetry that "The Marvelous Land of Indefinitions" provides. "POETRY IS FULL OF LIES!" wonderful! I love how this is a poem about things that are more important than poetry.

The Bernadette Mayer poem "First turn to me" mixed with some Whitman poems could be considered soft-core poetic pornography. She is so descriptive and I really enjoyed how most of her descriptions of sex were stripped from the corny "love" and more focused on the physical and situational aspects that encompass a sexual encounter.

Delicious

In August--

when the sun is beating down 

with two hot fists,

and your feet scream upward

through toes that are crammed

too tightly together,

and fatigue stains your shirt--

it is easy to forget

that this temporary salvation

is hose-water

Hook-Hand

He has a hook-hand

and it is perfect for

wrapping around your neck

and pulling you close

so he can whisper in your ear

and tell you how badly you hurt your team

by screwing up.

He has a hook-hand

not a metal one but a fleshy one.

It's just a regular hand

and arm

but misshapen. Truth be told

his hand got caught under his armpit

in the womb

and his bones fused together.

He has a hook-hand

and he claps with the palm of his "regular" hand

and the back of the hook-hand.

He uses the hook-hand to hold the phone,

so he can jot down things with the "regular" hand.

He has a hook-hand

and it isn't a disability. 

Because according to hook-handed men,

"it's not a disability if you are born with it!

If you had to go your whole life with it

learn to tie your shoes with it

and carry a football with it,

then it's not a disability!"

He has a hook-hand

and when he was younger he would hide the hook-hand

behind his back

before wrestling matches

in high school.

When it was time to shake hands before the match

he would hold out the hook-hand

and freak out opponents.

He would then use that same hook-hand

to hook necks and hook legs

and he went to the state wrestling championships.

He has a hook-hand

and a terrible offensive philosophy

and slanted eyebrows

and kind of a bad temper.

And he's someone else's problem now.

I served my four years.

Better Than Sex

In high school, scoring touchdowns was

better than sex

because I hadn't had enough sex to compare it to.

Now, scoring touchdowns is

better than sex

because you can't cum too quickly if you score a touchdown.

All Of My Pictures

On picture day

every year

I would make sure I had a haircut.

I would make sure that

my uniform was tucked in nicely,

my socks were pulled up,

and my cleats were clean.

"Ball in the right hand

chest high

chin up

and

say cheese!"

And it was right then,

every year

that I would think to myself,

"Self, I should smile instead of trying to look tough."

That's why the face I'm making

in every football picture

looks like I'm farting.

Utter Disappointment at 17

I remember talking to Wes that day on the bus:

"I'd much rather lose by 50 than by 1,

at least if you lose by 50 there was never any

real hope

anyway."

"Nah." 

It's hard to say I told you so

when your nose is so stuffy

because your nose gets really stuffy

when you are crying your eyes out.

Ode

So much depends

upon

an oblong foot

ball

kissed by stadium

lights

atop a green

field

Thigh Pads

See knee pads

and change the word "knee"

to "thigh"

Knee Pads

When you are running full speed

and someone

wearing a large chunk of molded metal

dives into your knee

it still hurts.

Shoulder pads

What's the point?

Shoulders separate

when you hit the grass

whether you wear them or not.

First Inhale

When you put it back on,

after being in the storage closet all summer--

because spring only lasts

17 days-- any moisture

or memory

has been dried .

The smell rekindles the heavy heat of summer--

the sweltering temperature

under the sun

when even water

can't be your Jesus.

The scent, unique

and unfamiliarly distinct,

tickles nostrils.

After fall--

where the days runtogetherandthereisnoreal

  break  --the smell is much different.

Autumnally, the storage room

is much cooler

and though most of the moisture leaves,

a bit is trapped.

In April after the fall--

when it begins again,

after years crammed into months

are tirelessly spent--the smells have returned.

The fresh grass

and blossoming terrain

and the helmets.

Colors of a Concussion (working title)

The first is red:

it's a dizzying scarlet

that swirls and wraps around 

your forehead.

Most of the time

it is red, and only red.

Yellow is trouble:

it signifies the confusion. 

A mustard-gas haze

as you can't regain

equilibrium.

The Blue:

clouds everything.

While teeth bite down

your muscles clench and 

release. This is

where the ringing begins,

a colorless sound

disorients

as they raise you to your feet.

Purple:

completes the rainbow.

The bruising pain

that pulsates

can't be cured immediately by the ice

that melts into water and 

trickles

down your spine.

Readings for Week 5

There weren't any new reading assignments posted for week 6 so I guess I gotta get my Marty McFly on and go back to the future:

Ginsberg "America"-

I really like the voice that Ginsberg speaks with in the poem yet I don't know if I am a victim of seeing him perform this schtick on youtube. I think that playing into the audience is important and lines like "Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb" and "You should have seen me reading Marx" are intelligent and counter-cultural to the time, but are they inherently poetic? I don't necessarily think so. I think they are witty and poignant and social criticism is a great way to express oneself, but I think they remind me more of an aspiring comic than a poet. 

Spicer "Imaginary Elegies" I-

The imagery with the eye and the camera and sight and dealing with time as instants, as well as the images of nature spliced within, is brilliant. I read and re-read this section before advancing to part II so I knew I had to write about it exclusively. Toward the end of the piece when he begins to speak from random voices, I don't know if I was captivated or confused and distracted. Part of me wants to ingest the whole piece as wonderful because of the wordplay and imagery in the beginning and the other part of me (The part that thinks Barnacle Bill=Random and Too random= cheesy and forced) disagrees. I sit and teeter on the edge of this piece but because the wordplay in the beginning is done so masterfully, I will read it again.

John Wieners-

"Two Years Later" is a short and sweet. I picture a man's skull after the electric chair because Wieners uses shock, electric, and burnt together. I don't know why this image is brought about but it is inspiring. The second half seems to be the substance of the poem; no matter what happens to a man (person) their "spirit" and beauty remains with them.

"My Mother" is packed with powerful images (so is your mom, BOOM!). But seriously, in the beginning Wieners creates a sense of importance by giving each line it's own space and separation from the others. I see an old woman talking to men on the subway who can't see the prying eyes of a loved one following her.

"As if heaven cared"

Such a brilliant line I had to separate it myself. The poem hides a lot of emotion intentionally and I think it is quaint and descriptive without being overt.