Say, in baseball I’m the starting pitcher but by the third inning
it’s obvious I don’t have my good stuff today, they’d call
the bullpen and
get someone else ready
yes a bummer but
that’s baseball, and redemption’s quite possible only five days
ahead, or, closer to real
not mythical Mets-me, say,
my solo on
2nd tune, opening set doesn’t say
much like, it’s not horrible but
heart mind must have been AWOL
but it’s quite possible I’d rip it
in 10 ,15 minutes next tune, I’d
play with more
or less fire, hit
some high ones or
live breathe love
in the coolNmellow downtown,
that’d be a not unrealistic
expectation. K, deal, Imma trumpet player (on-DL for a bit but not
a pro pitcher! but hey!) all
those roads to
what feels right on all those gorgeous days of emerald carpets, red clay, these late-June days nights ripe with
righteous left-right
roads to redemptions. Not
this so wrong here right now
inna poem in search of
a wouldacoulda, seems being
tired scared & Mr.Mojo
still MIA all that kinda laundry,
but whaablaah I’ve put us
through quite enough here
already. Let this simply be
what it appears to be, some
THING
of ignoble meanderings
I’d wish to reassign to a
someone else
RIGHT NOW, witha
someone witha fatter thoughts
witha tons
more of tougher leaner
less fear, to take
a real shot at realroads
to real redemptions to
tappy ‘long YOUR
lappy, to, please take this
and please have-a party
pump something
more entertaining and purposeful
than these gone
from GitGo lines
ago
lost, in any translation.
/mr
/2019
Mike Rosler 