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From the poetic justice files

April 24, 2012

Back in ’08, when the Phillies could still win a World Series and Roger Clemens was just beginning to lie about using PEDs, I spent a great deal of time involved in the campaign to defeat California’s wretched Proposition 8. It was an ugly, nasty fight, and one that prompted an unprecedented number of bigoted numbskulls to take to the interwebs and voice their opinions about gay people and same-sex marriage. Responding to them was useless, and ignoring them was unsatisfying, so, with Julie’s help, I started a blog and mocked them mercilessly instead.

Every now and then, there emerged from the hateful illiteracy a gem, a found poem, an accidental stroke of sheer beauty. I collected three batches of anti-gay haiku, which—then and now—put me in a happy Zen place, far from the slings and arrows of the campaign. (Really, who isn’t transported to a higher plane of consciousness by wisdom like “If I can’t marry / someone who’s in the same sex, / so should other’s can’t” and “I bet you are one / of those dudes with a chicks name / Like Chris or something”?)

It occurred to me last night, as I mused (not remotely for the first time) on my unhealthy lingering bitterness over The Future Hall of Famer Who Shall Not Be Named, that perhaps there was a similar solace to be found in the intersection of meditative poetry and impatient Angel fans waiting for their expensive new toy to do its thing. Visits to a handful of online forums confirmed that while the Los Angeles poets of Anaheim are neither as surrealist nor as typographically challenged as the gay-haters, they still produce some good work.

There are the tell-it-like-it-is doomsayers:

Pujols is the worst
free agent signing in all
baseball history.

Albert is Albert
and we all being patient
but he freaking choked 

Soon we’ll be sharing
the cellar with the Astros
and not all alone.

I have as many
homeruns as Albert (sorry,
I had to say it) 

Pujols in ’04
looked like a tank. Now he has
a damn beer belly. 

There are those who propose practical solutions to the power outage:

I know ! Sit Pujols
for a couple weeks. He’s not

hitting anyway!

I say send Albert
to the minors for a while

till he finds his swing.

Can somebody stick
the syringe full of steroids

back in Pujols’ butt??

There are the optimists and apologists:

too many people
think a 6 and 10 start is
the end of the world!

The Pujols critics
do not take into account
our marine layer.

cant compare Boston
to Angels. Boston is in
deeper deeper shit. 

And those who smack them back to reality:

dude i need some of
whatever medicine you’re

—I’m still holding on!
We’ll right the ship! —Ever herd
of the Titanic?

And finally, we have a few interloping Rangers fans, and the blistering retorts to their trash-talk:

Angels 6 and 10!
Pujols NO home runs! Priceless.
Karma’s a beeyotch. 

You know what’s funny?
Your wife just called and said the
same thing about you.

—I bet Arte’s pissed!!!!
—Not as pissed as your dad is
for not pulling out.

My wife’s friend moved to
Waco. She said she’d never
seen so many queers.

I feel more enlightened already! In fact, I’m inspired to close with my own original composition:

Seventeen games in,
I quite like the new Albert:
Less bash, more Basho.


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