Saturday, August 20, 2016
Monday, August 08, 2016
Dear Head Coach of Women’s Volleyball at Mercer University,
I like volleyball a lot. Me and my friend Dustin used to partake in spicy burgers in the beer garden at this pub called the Mash Ton in North Portland on Tuesdays in the summers. But that’s beside the point. Once in fact his friend Shane (yes, another Shane) took a photo with a slow shutter speed and many moons later this photo appeared on a website and it looked like Dustin’s hand was huge and had sixteen fingers and was coming out of his shorts holding a great big beer! That’s me in the picture across the table in a Chug Life t-shirt (actually perfect to wear to volleyball practice) looking like I had no clue what was going on. And it’s true that I didn’t. All in a good fun, as the kids say. I am 43 years-old. I will be sixty in 17 years. The barmaid at the Mash Ton had what you would call a volleyball player’s build. Blonde and probably six-foot-two. We struck up a friendship on a first-name basis. I would come in saying “Hello, Sarah” and she would reciprocate with the personal touch
Tell the girls I am out of a job and I have a big heart too. A starter for Mt Hood Community College back in the day tells you I’m sporty (Go Raiders). Until one day number 24 (yours truly) tore his hamstring trying to touch his toes during tip-off. He managed to draw a charge before they pulled him and sent him back to the hotel with a bag of McDonalds in one hand and some ice in the other. He fell asleep watching Quantum Leap with his legs up.
That was 23 years ago.
Today, I remain a sizable entity, who despite an infected cuticle, has good court coverage. I have watched the sport from afar, using binoculars mainly, and I have watched the sport up close where the images of ladies in kneepads blur like hillsides from the window of a train. I know the ins and outs. A picture I rapaciously return to is that of five babes in a crouch with their knees bent. I’m like “here comes the white leathery orb, girls! Extend those arms, Bump!”
Volleyball’s a good sport and this should be a lot of fun.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Well, when I read poetry I can’t imagine that what’s in the reader’s head is ever what was in the poet’s head, because there’s usually very little in the poet’s head.
You mean . . .
I mean, I think the reality of the poem is a very ghostly one. It doesn’t try for the kind of concreteness that fiction tries for. It doesn’t ask you to imagine a place in detail; it suggests, it suggests, it suggests again.