Mythville

The Rivalry

The sun came up cold, wolf-nosed,
with its business being your business,
and I knowing neither north nor south
and the divided elusive spheroid lands,
a football chopped into the Tao of two,
half cheese, half butter, all corn-fed,
rolling a gutter wash flood of drunk
monkeys into an Iowan university town ...

Saint Hayden Fry,
a cash-in-carrion
mixture of cow tippin',
tow truck drivin',
methane dispensin',
hawkwind huntin'
demythologian,
dark sunglass wearin',
Jim Jonesian hero cult
leader of the local FBI ...

Scoured and scorched
pump and dumpin' fear
into the rectangular fronted
armies of black-and-blue
burned bloody armies,
yellow hawkwind beaked,
technocratic beepee
station technocratic
fire and ice breakers
of split-levelled skyboxers
pointin' binoculars top-down
onto the grassy flats of evils
won and lost beneath
the split-level sky

A remote viewing post-toasty
hosting a contagion of baddass
battalions of flankers and big-necked
booboos, uneven into elevens,
spinning once snapped
into sun-punished twenty twos,
balancing their rises and falsies
just like the American Civil War ...

Except now the uniforms
are more graphically beautified
and the forward pass unpunted,
as opposed to the run and gas
is rewound into the awkward
remains of unconsecrated,
polyunsaturated ground ...

And there's always, outside the box
the African-American man,
remade as black boy,
who was once a believer,
shaking a broekn banana in town
since now he's unable to reach
anymore money-grubbing,
property owner theiving thieves
on the apartment rental emergency phone
in order to earn his martyred manger
for his hollowed out poverty mole mound ...

You, season ticket holder,
may have never known him
as more than a mere jersied number
but he came to school
with airy Jordan skills
glitters of jittering futurtastic
static plastic stars
in his decieved eyes

And I remember a hooded
bulldogger, drill sargeant,
screaming, "Are you a pussy?
Are you a pussy? You are just
a plain pussy, aren't you?"
I remember dirt seat and scarecrow
scared, gasping from behind my facemask ...
I remember being emasculated
for the terrifying linebacker's task
of using my helmeted Hopi head,
full of old Gaelic soul, wordy woes,
to fill a gawdamn imagined hole
so he could go home and howl
to his half-deaf bored overweight wifey
that being a wannabe Vince Lombardi,
now there, bitter cherry berry,
now, that's the life ...

Animal mind controlled
on fields of stolen gold
prairie son bloodied
all skylighted to maintain
Romanesque economies
of momentary plunder
between waves and waves
of beer and truck commercials,
church churned into jars of cash
and coins jingling into thunder ...

Yeah, Hayden Fry ...
Here's my greatest wish
to broadcast on my hopeless
limping satellite dish:
I hope that when they carry
you in that grand parade to your
tummy tucked tomb
that they bury you alive
with Iowa license plates
tattoed to your ethanol eyes ...