The Best American Poetry

Will Sinatra sue Frank McCourt the Bum?

According to the Los Angeles Times's Dodgers Blog, the Frank Sinatra estate, holders of five season tickets to Dodger games, may be among the ardent Dodger fans joining the legal dispute between putative owner Frank McCourt and the rest of humankind. McCourt's misdeeds need no rehearsing here. Suffice it to say that he has had a ruinous effect on a proud franchise and that it seems he would rather run it into the ground than surrender to the forces arrayed against him. These include destiny, major league baseball, angry creditors, embarrassed bankers, his soon-to-be-ex-wife and facsimile co-owner, the population of Los Angeles and environs, Dodger aficionadoes and and even bitter rivals. The well-named McCourt has made only the bankruptcy and divorce lawyers happy.

The LA Times article --"Dodgers bankruptcy: Frank McCourt vs. Frank Sinatra?" -- shows how a very little tidbit of news can go far thanks to the magic of names and an old-fashioned play on words, the journalistic equivalent of a rhyme: Ol' Blue Eyes bleeds Dodger Blue just as his old pal Tommy Lasorda does.

Frankly, my dear, I sort of give a damn.  -- DL

Clemens to Appear in Small Claims Court? [by Stephen Reichert]

My new friends from The Associated Press took this photo of my baseball cards. Before the prosecution shit their pants, and while on recess, I held the door for a sweating Clemens, which suddenly put me alone with him in a long hallway on the 6th floor of the courthouse. With the wisdom of editor/baseball player Jeff Lewandowski bolstering my confidence—“The answer is always no if you don’t ask.”—I had this interaction with Clemens.

Me: Hey Roger, good luck. I'm rooting for you.
RC: Thanks man.
Me: I don't mean to bother you, but...
RC: (Interrupting) Sure, no problem. I'll sign it (card below).
Me: I know you're really busy.
RC: (Smiles, but doesn’t laugh.)
Me: This whole case is bullshit and I hope you kick their asses.
RC: (Nods) Thanks buddy, I appreciate it.
Me: Thank you.

Okay, this sounds all well and good—I met the shark in open waters and he didn't bite—but Roger may quickly turn his missteps into something like the three trials of Oscar Wilde. You see, the card was worth about $20. When he took it from me, he left a drop of sweat on the card, which caused a blemish (near his 1985 left eye); thus lowering the card's value to around $10. A second later he signed the card increasing the value by about $400. So, you can see where I’m a victim. What should be a $420 Clemens signed rookie is now worth only $410 thanks to his sweaty mistake. It’s irrelevant that I will never sell the card. What is relevant is that there is a small claims court a long fly ball from U.S. District Court for matters such as this. So, don't be surprised to see Reichert v. Clemens on the docket when he's done getting off the Fed's hook.

Clemens 1, Feds 0 [by Stephen Reichert]

Mistrial. That was quick.

A walk in the park:

   

Moments ago the prosecution allowed the jury to see inadmissible evidence. Both sides were instructed at pre-trial that they were not to introduce outside evidence pertaining to the creditability of key witnesses. The prosecution allowed the jury to see comments made by U.S. Rep. Elijah E. Cummings about key (future) witness Andy Pettitte. A document with Cummings' comments was posted on the video screens in front of the jury as well as on the screen facing the public. Judge Walton was upset; Clemens' lawyer Hardin moved for a mistrial, the motion was granted and the victory (or "I didn't lose yet") parade began. Near the end of my video a friend gets Clemens' autograph.

 

The Great White Shark [by Stephen Reichert]

Truly, to tell lies is not honorable;
But when the truth entails tremendous ruin,
To speak dishonorably is pardonable.
                    --Sophocles, Fragment 323 of Creusa

Today was the first day in the federal government’s perjury trial against former baseball star Roger Clemens. Clemens is accused of lying to a House committee in 2008 when he voluntarily appeared before them (oops!) and denied using performance-enhancing drugs. The 48-year-old seven-time Cy Young Award winner is facing up to 30 years in prison.

On the first day of voir dire I went into the courtroom café for lunch and immediately lucked into line behind the 'ole Rocket. While wearing a terrible lime green energy wristband to complement his conservative grey suit, he ordered a hot ham’n swiss and a glass of OJ. I sat at the table next to him, his six lawyers and his wife Debbie. Their conversation wasn't terribly enlightening (Yeh, what was I expecting?), though Roger told his lead attorney, Rusty Hardin, that someone's potential testimony would amount to hearsay. Rusty patiently and silently nodded.

Roger looks like a great white shark stuffed into a suit. I now understand why Mike Piazza and countless other hitters decided it was better to walk to first base than charge the mound after being hit by a Clemens’ fastball. His wife looks much better in person than she does in the photo-shoot pics you find online. Rusty is charming and quick-witted, intense but calm, the kind of person you want to believe and would hate to disappoint.

And if you're interested, at the close of lunch Debbie confirmed they were grabbing a X:XX p.m. flight out of Reagan National Airport to Houston on XXXX--coach, but she bought the entire row of seats so you can't sit next to them. Roger thought that was fine; I hope you do too.

Here’s the great white shark passing your blogger/poetry boy into court on day one of voir dire. As the poet Duncan Primeaux would say over his Boddingtons while picking a bar fight, “you take the guy with seven Cy Young Awards and I’ll take the former division three baseball player from Wisconsin.”

Excuse me L.A. Times but for the record I didn't ask him a question:
  
 

Clemens’ lawyers did an impressive job of preparing potential jurors for the possibility that Clemens may not need to testify. This concept was confusing for a couple of them. Many of the potential jurors were dense and I’ll let you decide if this will constitute a jury of Roger’s peers.

One potential juror said he was a Yankee fan at the time Roger played for the Yankees but doesn't know when or if he retired. He thought Barry Bonds was guilty of perjury and that he pled guilty to the charge. (He wasn’t and he didn’t.) He was also clearly lying when he said he knew about George Mitchell and BALCO. When asked what exactly he knew about them, he said he didn't know anything. The juror didn't know where his own wife worked. He thought the government was always right. He thought Clemens was on trial because he's charged with taking steroids. His last name is Jeter but said he's not related to Derek. Really?! 

A women said she was a Sammy Sosa fan and when asked if she knew of Roger Clemens said, "I've never heard of him." Sadly, the judge told the juror that Sammy Sosa is very unlikely to be called as a witness.

But the highlight was:

Q (Clemens' lawyer Rusty Hardin): What is your occupation?
A (Potential Juror Man who walked briskly in and out of the courtroom): I've been on complete disability since 2000 for my back.

Q: Do you have any hobbies?
A: Yes, I enjoy riding bikes.

Roger Clemens (thinking): And I'm on trial?

Brooklyn: Kissed and coldcocked (Ray DeJesús)

i. Is it Barcelona? Is it Brooklyn? Paris? No, Brooklyn, I'm sure of it. After all,for  37 years it's the city that's taken so much from me, but, simultaneously, givenme its heart and marrow. I owe this cement and tar; this cement and tar knows of my debt. Whether we’re talking Dyker, Carroll Gardens, Bushwick, Canarsie, Windsor, Kensington, Manhattan Beach, Brighton, and ah, Sunset Park (Gunset to its natives, me included), et al, home.

 

ii. Sunset for 28 years. My first kiss; first love, Kim Toler; loves come and gone; first making whoopee; mortality here and there; loves gone and come; books stacked, books tossed; sheets of scribbling thrown to the wolves and the dumpster (true story); cheese sandwiches in the church vestibule; catholic schoolboy/school girl uniforms; stolen bikes; eight hour wiffle ball marathons(“Scuff that ball good,kid”); slap; spud; manhunt; manic late night drives (2AM to be exact) from Sunset to Gravesend and back.

 

iii. I may have had the honor, the privilege to travel here and there, but these is some special, gritty streets. Mind you, I'm not the only one born out of Brooklyn's womb: The Millers, Selby Jr., Mailer, Woody, Basquiat, Streissand, Louie the Lizard, Frankie from Smith, Angela (those eyes), Illiana (damn fabulous smile), The Savasta sisters (Marianna, Giulieta, Vincenza; Marianna, them poutty lips) Colleen, Mr.Mouse and his brother Red, and yes, Violi, Sir Paul Violi.

 

iv. Doesn't Brooklyn know its language, its prosody? Of course it does, Brooklyn comes equipped. Whether you hear the syllables, the cadences, the beat, in the trees, on the train platform, your local deli, in traffic, in line for your lotto ticket (the beautiful and talented poet, Ashleigh Allen, would be proud of my preposition selection there), the language is there, always there. It refuses to move. It's in constant flux, morphing. Beautiful lines, crass and uncomfortable lines. Some favorites of mine, and it’s all about delivery: "Do me favor? Go fuck yourself!" Or, the ubiquitous, "Go fuck your mother’!"  When you hear these gems, accept them, embrace them, you know your home. Let me not forget that it was here that I found and read my first collections of poetry thanks to Mr. Ed Breslin and Mr. George MacLarty (poet, best friend and high school English teacher): cummings, Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, yes. I was 15, and stuffed in my back pocket, true story, Ferlinghetti's Coney Island of the Mind and cummings' 100 poems. Yes, methinks I'm home.

 

Books of the day: Sarah Sarai's The Future is Happy; Lauren Hunter's forthcoming chapbook titled, My Own Fires; Rachel Zolf's Human Resources (more on Zolf's work later this week), Ben Mirov’s Ghost Machine, Elaine Equi’s Click and Clone

 

Poets to look for/ read: Jeff T. Johnson, Claire Donato, Samantha Zighelboim, David Blasco,  Allison Power, Amanda Smeltz, Mark Guarie, Christine N. Kanowink, Alina Gregorian, Martin Beeler, Camilo Roldan,  Adam Fitzgerald,, Kate Angus, Laura Minor. Joe Weil, Lauren Hunter, Sharmilla Cohen. More to come.

 Journals/magazines to look for: Maggy, Supermachine, Infinite Editions, 1913, G(o)BBet

 

"Hope is a Thing with Black and Orange Feathers" (by Laura Orem)

Today is the home opener for the Orioles. I grew up near Baltimore, and I am old enough to remember the glory days of Brooks and Frank Robinson, Boog Powell, and Mark Belanger, and later Jim Palmer, Cal Ripken, and Rick Dempsey. (I actually went to high school in the same county as Ripken - we are the same age, and I saw him play several times when we were both kids.) I saw my first game at the now defunct Memorial Stadium - my big brother took me. We sat in the $3 bleacher seats and he bought me cracker jack and a miniature souvenier bat. The O's played either the Royals or the Twins - I can't remember - and lost. That should have been a sign.

It's been a long time since those days. A long time. A very long time. But like a true Cubs fan, a true Oriole fan never gives up hope. The season has just started. We're 3-0. Things are looking up.

Here are two things to get you into the baseball mood. One is...well, of course you know. The second is the stellar Buck O'Neil singing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game."

Batter up!

"Casey at the Hospice" [by James Cummins]

I want to turn on an inside pitch.

I want to feel the ball against my bat.

I want to feel a death like that.

 

I read my daughters Cat In The Hat,

thought I was a good dad; that was rich.

I want to turn on an inside pitch.

 

I lost myself in husband fat,

dreamed of dusty diamonds, that old itch.

I want to feel a death like that.

 

I’ve sat where the players sat,

bitched where the players bitch.

I want to turn on an inside pitch.

 

The pitcher glares at me, tugs his hat.

I want to knock him in a ditch.

I want to feel a death like that.

 

Somewhere, my swing has lost its hitch.

Somewhere, my belly and the land are flat.

I want to turn on an inside pitch.

I want to feel a death like that.

-- James Cummins

"It Curves!" - John Findura

Hello all! Thanks for checking in. My name is John and I’ll be your tour guide for the week. There are all sorts of things that we’ll explore together: UFOs, my father’s poetry about Amish cashiers in Ohio, the time I almost went searching for Bigfoot in Washington State, why the Honeymooners is the best television show of all time, and some reflections from my time spent as the “ball crawl” guy at Chuck E. Cheese’s Pizza when I was 18. Oh, and poetry.

For my first post, though, I wanted to talk about something important, something that doesn’t really get the attention it deserves. No, it’s not a post about the themes of supplication and resignation in the work of James and Franz Wright, but if you’d really like, I can post that as well or you can go searching for my Master’s thesis at The New School. What I’m talking about is perhaps the most beautiful, most perfect object in existence: the Wiffle Ball.

The Guessing Game (II)

So you think you know baseball! Here is the 1957 Topps baseball card for Sal Maglie, who pitched brilliantly for the Dodgers in 1956 after spending most of his career hurling for the Bums' arch-rivals, the New York Giants.

Why was Maglie nicknamed "the Barber"?

(1) Because he was a barber in Buffalo, NY, when a scout for the Giants discovered him.
(2) Because his favorite singer, Perry Como, was also a barber.
(3) Because he brushed back hitters, throwing so near to their heads that an at-bat against Maglie was a "close shave."
(4) He was nicknamed "the Baker," not "the Barber."
(5) Because he always looked like he needed a shave.

The Greatest

People ask me who the greatest player ever was and I always answer Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays.
-- Tom Lasorda

left: Lasorda with unidentified professor before he gives commencement address, gets honorary degree, at Cypress College, May 2010.