all we have are the baseball myths of boyhoods past. he's an idiot savant my dad used to joke about my interest in the stats. league leaders in batting average, home runs, runs batted in. the umpires were more demonstrative before hd slo-mo cameras could prove them not to be gods. gods or not, the players would yell, the managers would yell, there was yelling all the time.
my problem is i'm still that dawdly boy full of love
that's not a problem
she said
when some future generations look in on us with interest and pity. that mixture in which we set our gaze upon the ones who tread these spaces before us, they will see this, a call, a beacon, a flare. i'll tell them, no, i tell them,
it's ok to feel
it's ok to heal
i talked to my dad driving my own car from venice to koreatown. his voice playing through my speakers like one of the few radio stations i can still tolerate and listen to.
and i'll learn. i'll live and learn. i'll do it for awhile. i'll leave distinct traces here best felt by time and others and the lovely havoc these members of generations wreak.
