Page Seven —
A collection of poems, prose, and creative lit. by DOC Curtis
My spirit has run away
from home. Before he left he
stuffed a bag with: my heart, ripped
out the cold furnace; my love,
dragged off the rumpled bed; my
smile, torn from the unhinged front
door. Why did he leave me hope?
Sunday—mass or blessed sleep
Monday—work or call in sick
Tuesday—cook or buy Chinese
Wednesday—the movies or sex
Thursday—court TV or walk
Friday—one drink or get drunk
Saturday—what more choices?
One night, on the outskirts of
Madrid, I attended a
LIVE SEX SHOW. Starring were four
tits, three asses, two vages,
and one dick. That dick should be
given an award! After
the show, I brought a girl home.
I bit big into a dark
red apple and, and nothing.
There was no taste. There was no
sweet nor juicy. So I threw
her away and picked out an
orange. Now she was sweet for
sure. And I ate her all up.
At night do you ever just
like to roll down the windows,
turn off the radio, dim
the dash lights, and drive as fast
as you can through the back hills
over that two lane road and
then turn around and drive back?
My son told me, "Your breath smells
like a baseball game." I thought,
"Hotdogs, peanuts, cold draft beer,
ice cream, popcorn, grass, and dirt,
wooden bats, leather gloves, sweat,
new hats, crumpled money, a
foul ball, tickets, my boy's hair."
Big ole Panda at home plate
Swinging, rocking before the
pitch, and the kick, here comes the
throw, he shifts, he twists, head down,
he strokes the ball, it flies to
the wall, further, more, over,
3000 hits, a sure hall
of famer. The argument
begins: better than Babe Ruth,
or Lou Gehrig, not better,
surely, than DiMaggio,
or Mickey Mantle, but yes—
Jeter: the greatest Yankee!