I'm watching Game One
Nets v Cubs NLCS.
All four teams left wear
same royal blue. I
know no one with two bathtubs
on his patio.
Surrounding the storm
Harvey's Tommy John workload
he's perfect through four.
There was a band named
Europe - Pristiq, sorry, new
drug for depression,
national ad break -
the band called Europe, song
Countdown, Geico ad.
I was caught off-guard,
I missed the recitation
Pristiq's fatal flaws.
Once my patio
has two bathtubs, one me one
you, parasailing
next, but not for more
than four hours. Harvey slips
slider, fats batter,
gives up double, tied.
Bob Dylan IBM
commercial, I'd heard,
but. Seven and eight
scratch singles bottom fifth, can
Harvey bunt? No. Grrr
Anderson, not Gran-
derson. Bond bang - Spectre back?
I-oop! my trained ears.
Line drive off Harvey's
left shoulder, Harvey picks up,
throws out, crowd waves towels.
The crowd chants Harvey.
Steve Job, the movie. Jeffrey
Bald Guy, Fred Willard
Direct TV ad.
Travid d'Arnoud hits apple.
Mets 3-1. Pitching
coach holds nose to hide
lips. Watch the outfielders not
the ball. Position,
says Cal Ripken, fail,
the third baseman. Please, no Cal
next Nats' manager.
Justin Grimm warms up
in Mets' bullpen. Lester can't
throw to first. Cal says
clutch can can't clutch guy.
That glance that ruins everything.
That Schwarber again.
That glance that ruins
buzz, that lower back spasm,
optional blindness,
isn't possible.
Hum dissolves. I wish I could too.
Taco Bell, stupid.
Chevy Trucks, stupid.
Breakfast for dinner, stupid.
I'm going to sleep.
