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Showing posts from March, 2012

Saturday in The Big Easy. The Bourbon State on Bourbon Street Edition.

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Sunday in CinCity. Those Krazy Kats Edition.

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Well, there were some long nights here in CinCity as many of us early morning working folk here in town have attended schools recently playing in the Sweet Sixteen. The Bearcats were thrilled to have been asked to the dance, but a little too young to stay for the entire event. The Wildcats though...the health and prosperity of life on Earth as we know it depends all on them. Stay strong, men!





Old Men Playing Basketball

by B. H. Fairchild


The heavy bodies lunge, the broken language

of fake and drive, glamorous jump shot

slowed to a stutter. Their gestures, in love

again with the pure geometry of curves,



rise toward the ball, falter, and fall away.

On the boards their hands and fingertips

tremble in tense little prayers of reach

and balance. Then, the grind of bone



and socket, the caught breath, the sigh,

the grunt of the body laboring to give

birth to itself. In their toiling and grand

sweeps, I wonder, do they still make love



to their wives, kissing the undersides

of their wrists, …

In the heat of late afternoon...

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by Gary Young



In the heat of late afternoon, lightning streaks from a nearly

cloudless sky to the top of the far mesa. At dusk, the whole south

end of the valley blazes as the clouds turn incandescent with

some distant strike. There is a constant congress here between

the earth and the sky. This afternoon a thunderstorm crossed the

valley. One moment the ground was dry, and the next there were

torrents running down the hillsides and arroyos.


A quarter-mile off I could see a downpour bouncing off the sage and the fine clay

soil. I could see the rain approach, and then it hit, drenching me,

and moved on. Ten minutes later I was dry. The rain comes from

heaven, and we are cleansed by it. Suddenly the meaning of baptism

is clear to me: you can begin again, and we are saved every day.

Saturday in CinCity. The He Sees You When You're Sleeping Edition.

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May those that love us, love us.


And those that don’t love us,

May God turn their hearts.

And if he doesn’t turn their hearts,

May he turn their ankles,

So we’ll know them by their limping.

Looking at the Sky

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by Anne Porter



I never will have time

I never will have time enough

To say

How beautiful it is

The way the moon

Floats in the air

As easily

And lightly as a bird

Although she is a world

Made all of stone.



I never will have time enough

To praise

The way the stars

Hang glittering in the dark

Of steepest heaven

Their dewy sparks

Their brimming drops of light

So fresh so clear

That when you look at them

It quenches thirst.



Saturday in CinCity

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Looking for The Gulf Motel


by Richard Blanco





Marco Island, Florida





There should be nothing here I don't remember . . .



The Gulf Motel with mermaid lampposts

and ship's wheel in the lobby should still be

rising out of the sand like a cake decoration.

My brother and I should still be pretending

we don't know our parents, embarrassing us

as they roll the luggage cart past the front desk

loaded with our scruffy suitcases, two-dozen

loaves of Cuban bread, brown bags bulging

with enough mangos to last the entire week,

our espresso pot, the pressure cooker—and

a pork roast reeking garlic through the lobby.

All because we can't afford to eat out, not even

on vacation, only two hours from our home

in Miami, but far enough away to be thrilled

by whiter sands on the west coast of Florida,

where I should still be for the first time watching

the sun set instead of rise over the ocean.



There should be nothing here I don't remember . . .



My mother should still b…

TGIF. The Before March-Madness Edition.

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Cheap Seats, the Cincinnati Gardens, Professional Basketball, 1959


by William Matthews



The less we paid, the more we climbed. Tendrils

of smoke lazed just as high and hung there, blue,

particulate, the opposite of dew.

We saw the whole court from up there. Few girls

had come, few wives, numerous boys in molt

like me. Our heroes leapt and surged and looped

and two nights out of three, like us, they'd lose.

But "like us" is wrong: we had no result

three nights out of three: so we had heroes.

And "we" is wrong, for I knew none by name

among that hazy company unless

I brought her with me. This was loneliness

with noise, unlike the kind I had at home

with no clock running down, and mirrors.

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Revival


by Luci Shaw



March. I am beginning

to anticipate a thaw. Early mornings

the earth, old unbeliever, is still crusted with frost

where the moles have nosed up their

cold castings, and the ground cover

in shadow under the cedars hasn't softened

for months, fogs layering their slow, complicated ice

around foliage and stem

night by night,



but as the light lengthens, preacher

of good news, evangelizing leaves and branches,

his large gestures beckon green

out of gray. Pinpricks of coral bursting

from the cotoneasters. A single bee

finding the white heather. Eager lemon-yellow

aconites glowing, low to the ground like

little uplifted faces. A crocus shooting up

a purple hand here, there, as I stand

on my doorstep, my own face drinking in heat

and light like a bud welcoming resurrection,

and my hand up, too, ready to sign on

for conversion.

Tuesday in CinCity. The Vote Early and Often Edition.

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It's Super Tuesday in the Heartland. Let the squeaking margin of victory begin.

Saturday in CinCity. The Ain't Nobody Here but Us Chickens Edition.

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We were in the tornado zone yesterday. All is well with our little family, other than our tomcat has somehow injured his foot in the storm, though I hear both our hospitals are seeing more and more casualties. HoneyHaired lives in a dorm built to survive WWIII. NurseGrrrrl, a little ways south of us, had to evacuate her unit of her hospital yesterday and herd them back. But, LTown seems to have gotten off lightly. Others not so lucky.
Certainly makes you think. I woke up thinking of a book I'd read, Here If You Need Me, A True Story, by Kate Braestrup. It's actually a book I'd bought for NurseGrrrrl, and it never quite changed hands, but I digress...
 an excerpt:
"Jim comes back to the firehouse with a heavy heart. He has scratches on his cheek, twigs in his hair, pine needles down his pants, and his mother is still nowhere to be found. Yet he takes in the scene before him, mops the rain from his face, and smiles.
"Look at this," he says. "Look at thi…