IT'S PAST YOUR PASTIME.
One after the other they come to bat
And face the animals and mobs
They look tragic behind bars
Wearing the latest in felony orange
Cleats attached to the heels with bolts
Blood white with amphetamine charm
They take strikes in the chin and temple
For the team the mascot the principal ownership
For the chaw in the ass of the mouth
They take down forests and siphon lakes
The smoking ruin of neighborhoods
On a roller-coaster ride from some lost paradise
Peanuts pelted from the tear ducts of stars
They stand grinning bulls in the dugout corrida
Capes glistening crimson and smelter of dark heavens
They take their swings and connect with flight
Patterns destined for the pit of the spirit
Retired from the game they buy car dealerships
Sheriff departments and seats in Congress
A merry band of pranksters playing an innocent game for boys
One by one enshrined in a Hall of Fame noteworthy
For bloodstains tainting uniform sweatshop notoriety
A called homerun a campaign promise a hot dog
A brand of shoes a tattooed endorsement a liver transplant
One after the other they reach for the fences
Their jerseys are spotless for the first pitch of the game
While one out of three is a commendable average
"Passer is not fond of snow. Passer has published before so what. Passer screams top of lungs standing on roof of 68 Mustang in the downpour. Passer Native of San Francisco. Passer hasn’t seen a Dr. in 10 years. Passer published with Burroughs in 1988. Passer has a funny smelling name. Passer hides from the sun. Passer in 3am Magazine, Poetry Super Highway, and So What Daily. Passer likes cats but is allergic to cats..."
