THE ROBERT FROST KICKBALL CLUB
In my soul grows a small soul.
In my small soul, one smaller.
Infinite repetition, nonstop loop.
Each beanstalk is an endophyte.
Inside my teeth lie small baby teeth.
Inside those, infinitesimal baby teeth.
I reject each grim oath whispered
by gypsies in Western Mass. I fumigate
rotting futons. If he were still akickin’
I’d kick Robert Frost’s ass
in kickball. I’d pop the ball, restitch it
with shards of marble. I’d talk shit +
run up the motherfuckin’ score.
The game within the game.
I hereby donate my bargain-bin
Kama Sutra handbook to a humanoid
giraffe named Koan. Koan rocks black
glasses and a Kangol. Inside Koan’s
neck is a neck; inside that neck,
a deep well. Neck-flex. How
ponderous. How ponderous the axons
fired into the cortex inside his cortex.
Over there’s the BBQ, the smoky pavilion.
Over there the gypsy fan club.
Over here is Robby-Boy, pinned
with a participation ribbon.
He pouts and kicks a rock.
His soul slips off its helix.
Gyres widen around the bases.
Poetry trophy-wives applaud.
Inside the MVP is an MVP.
DJ Koan is spun out, like his vinyl.
’Til
’Til
’Til
’Til it skips.
—from Rattle #46, Winter 2014
__________
Maceo J. Whitaker: “I live in the thriving arts community of Beacon, New York. My favorite poets include Martín Espada, Mary Karr, and James Tate. My favorite rappers are Redman and Big L. I have many failed epic poems, including one in which mushroom consumption goes awry at a Draco Malfoy convention.” (website)
