By the
Editor
(huge tip o’ the hat
to ML and James Joyce for inspiring this final MBW column)
ferryrun, past
Philiipe’s and Little Joe’s, up to where la la la el lay la Sorda is these days
seen sorta slumped down in his Googie nest, south not north! From ravine to
bend of bay, ravaged fans play chin music with each other’s mugs, okay so long
as it’s not my frank, and amber and green stein. One finger, two fingers, a
deuce Kafka’ed into a dying quail into an out. Hoping this fence buster posin’
and preenin’, becomes a Most Vile (Alstonian) Punch and Judy peanut butter and
jelly belter, more Mendoza Line MVP&J than MVP.
A worm burner ignites
a pink and red rhubarb; the brouhaha features lip licking and dirt kicking and
premature ejection, field now funked with slick expectoration, bases now drunk
with besotted expectation. I pine for a Golden Sombrero, a quadruped goose-egg,
and I smell the pungence as the cheese flies home. I also hear the cold clear
oomph caused by a cutter’s whiff, and the clarity of exaltation at the next can
of corn. Climactic clarity? Good God, is this how My Baseball Week ends? Not
with Angellian prose or Angelesian glory, but ever repeating cluttered crystals
of foggy fog fog prisming reflection and insight that never quite focus? My
mind is a glass arm flailing for grok satori a priori apprehension, or at least
a decent pitch.
Cast me as a circuit
clout salami, hit hard on an out of the parker odyssean return to the fount of
origin, a Baltimore chop that no bazooka can stop. Or maybe get me thrown by a
Picasso on that solid sweet spiral consensual arc only to become a whackadoodle
thwackadoodle ball/bat kiss of exalted flight! I weep at the cove and long for
a more satisfying baseballian journey, a much longer river ride, an epic
different kind of
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