First Pitch, #143

In the battle between what we own,
&nbsp all the gadgets and trinkets,
&nbsp&nbsp the doodads and knobs painted
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp shiny black, matte in finish
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp the well-lit logos shown
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp on the tops, sides and backs,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp edges all dented,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp chips of paint that force us
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp to imagine we could switch,
&nbsp&nbsp upgrade without restraint,
&nbsp even if we end up adding debt
in signing up for a new loan.

Pitch the lot of it. First
pitch the most expensive.

In the struggle between what hides us,
&nbsp the well bought pieces of clothing,
&nbsp&nbsp the matched accents and buttons,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp our convergent linguistics,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp the felt pieces we dress
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp ourselves up in, thin
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp polyesters and nylons,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp fake weaves and plastics,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp we surrender bodies too quickly
&nbsp&nbsp to the dictatorships of fashion,
&nbsp hoping the name of designers will cling
to our skin, wash onto us from our dress

Pitch the lot of it. First
pitch the most expensive.

Cut the cable lines
&nbsp that enter live like IVs, the strings
&nbsp&nbsp of the stereo equipment,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp cable boxes, television,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp the hours you’ve dined
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp in front of that thing,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp nights you’ve spent
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp like a seal on a mission
&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp &nbsp hoping to catch a rerun
&nbsp&nbsp of a show you meant
&nbsp to Tivo, finale of the West Wing.
Trust me, you’ll be fine.

Pitch the lot of it. First
pitch the most expensive.

Every ounce of computing power
&nbsp from the desktop to the wristwatch,
&nbsp&nbsp the laptops and all the iPods.
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Unplug yourself from blogs
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and podcasts, hour
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp long ramblings, botched
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp mumblings, wadded up
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp interviews. Shake the fog
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp from your bleeding eyes, jog
&nbsp&nbsp your memory and your body, nod
&nbsp your head to the side, outside, to catch
the praying chipmunks and showers.

Pitch the lot of it. First
pitch the most expensive.

And once you’ve got back
&nbsp your IQ and your wallet,
&nbsp&nbsp spent a little less on Sanyo
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and Gucci, once your closets
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp are empty, then crack
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp open your finest wine and upset
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp the bottle, throw
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp it on the concrete, let
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp it flow out while you forget
&nbsp&nbsp it existed. See what you know
&nbsp now, what dreams and what threats
you wish to keep, what had built up like plaque.

Pitch the lot of it. First
pitch the most expensive.

Next blow the car up, who needs it.
&nbsp The job you can get now
&nbsp&nbsp is next door, just down
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp the street, walking distance.
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp So take the dog out, sit
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp on a bench halfway, bow
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp down to tie your brown
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp shoe. Not a chance
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp to be late due to the advance,
&nbsp&nbsp the earth drowned out,
&nbsp or lack thereof, of traffic. Allow
the Jettas of the world to gun it.

Pitch the lot of them. First
pitch the most expensive.

It’s a woods. It’s an empty room.
&nbsp It’s a kiss from your lover’s lips
&nbsp&nbsp after a good conversation.
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp It’s the passing sun
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp coming up soon
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp enough to burn a strip
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp of red across the one
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp uncovered bit of bun
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp you left in the oven.
&nbsp&nbsp Now beg what we’ve done,
&nbsp what happens to the tragically hip
who’ll look like the lot of us soon.

Pitch ’em, the lot of them. First
pitch the most expensive.

Ours is a cold summer morning
&nbsp out beneath the cloud cover
&nbsp&nbsp trapped and hoping for a kiss
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp from the lips of radiation
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp that fell down warming
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp us long before the hovering
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp satellites stopped by to whisk
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp up our phone calls, ration
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp our conversations, keep national
&nbsp&nbsp security agents listening.
&nbsp Let’s not wonder what hovers
above us. Take this warning.

Pitch ’em, the lot of them. First
pitch the most expensive.

The best way to take back our nation
&nbsp is not by voting,
&nbsp&nbsp but by going agrarian.
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp No, not green,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp not simply rationing
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp off gasoline, hoping
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp maybe vegetarian
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp autos will flood the scene
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp running our live on batteries.
&nbsp&nbsp No, I mean living like Tarzan,
&nbsp build a great wall or a moat
with some nut-job, way right Republican.

Pitch ’em, the rich ones. First
the most expensive.

And when all who are left
&nbsp are the poor and unfortunate,
&nbsp&nbsp the lost, crazy, veterans
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp of pointless wars,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp pointy headed thieves
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and their eight
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp sided lunatic fans,
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp then what more
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp can we hate, abhor,
&nbsp&nbsp or lament about the path of man,
&nbsp what can say then about fate
and its antecedents, decedents bereft.

Pitch ’em, the rich ones. First
the most expensive,
then the rest left to live.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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