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      April 15, 2015The Robert Frost Kickball ClubMaceo J. Whitaker

      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 #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.”