Humidity in Montreal? In the month of May? I’m not accustomed to wearing a turban. Too much work but I bow anyway; with my gut and do the immigrant dance because I am one. The preparations of pilgrims to maintain dreadlocks and not mix meat and dairy. The food sex and dance at sunset. Thank you Vin Scully. I will pull up a chair or screw it. I’ll just sit on the floor.
I like shoelaces and ropes. There’s locomotion in raising up sails. Velcro scares me. I wrap myself in two extra layers of textiles spun in a country I’ve never been and walk through the humidity. I’m swimming through applesauce.
Friday the fine night to slip sky rise hotel, climb its roof top and sleep outside bathing in a public sky. They can’t arrest dreams. Or stay at sea level; collect broken branches and peel away newspapers flat lined against railroad fences. Build a pyramid, set it on fire and tailgate up some sausages.
I did neither, but the Yankees were in Milwaukee so I scrounged through my Maghreb ancestry buried within; the hospitality gene we all have somewhere. New York always struck me as a wine town so I bought a cheap bottle of mini red something or other and toasted Sean Casey for showing me how to treat base runners visiting the first ivory sack; treat em’ with a hookah offering. I love New York.
Some kind vagabond has already journeyed outside the dotted lines this eastern spring gate; already set out logs in the fire pit for the next night’s beggar. I feel it tonight. The forest never lies; its promise still true after all the zippers, square roots, and aluminum siding facades. The flames in the fire still making faces for those who can see and cracking noises for those that can’t. A lowest common denominator; a gps for visions
No need for cell phones. We can talk to God in our own language. We all freaking crazy. The fire sizzles and waves. It sings to the boredom from which it spawned. Dear boredom, you are the calm before the fury; a Delaware after the mud. But we don’t need the state, only the river Hoe.
We doused her with desire and she still lap dances and feeds us mud to rub up our baseballs. Lena Blackburne, you are my Delaware myth. I want you more than reality. We can’t eat rivets. Dear Lena , the world is a beastly sizzle and mangoes are the perfect shape. Thank you for falling from the fishing boat onto the Palmyra side and rolling in the wet earth.
It’s written in the stars and the gloppity gloop of ocean bottoms. The candle still burns and the wick never blows out, but it’s not Wrigley.
It’s Miller Park where there is no wind, no air conditioning either. It’s where Masahiro Tanaka is a stranger in a strange stadium in a strange city in a strange country. The whole damn earth is strange. There were once just trees and cows; bats and balls.
Tanaka is 29-0 since the launch of 2013. The Rakuten? In the Japanese Pacific League? I don’t care if it’s Theo’s whiffle ball league! That’s Cy Young delicious. I can’t even comprehend the magnitude of that number; 29-0. It makes me delirious. Tanaka offers a curly cue leg kick and coil of the wrist. No batter sees the ball leave his hand. And even if they do, his split fingered fastball splits at never before speeds. He is highly unpredictable with an octopus variety of pitches.
Carlos Gomez steps to the plate in the bottom of the first and that’s one hot tectonic tamale plate. He swings the world around. Gomez walks, steals second, advances to third but is stranded in a Braunless universe. Tanaka to the showers by the 4th inning and I’m in love with nothing in particular. Final score; Brewers 8, Yankees 1 or 2. I forget.
But it’s all a lie or my faulty weather forecast. I’m drunk on wine. Tanaka did give up 7 hits in 6 and a third innings Friday night, but allowed only 2 runs. He struck out 7. And Yongarvis Solarte is the Yankee no one knows. He hit a three run home run in the fourth and leads the team with 18 RBI’s. The real final score Friday night; Yankees 5, Brewers 3.
The Brewers are 22–14 and 2-6 in the merry month of May. Next time I’ll stick with what I like; beer.