A Poetry Slam

I saw the best minds Caps bloggers of my generation destroyed by madness, starving (for a win) hysterical naked panicked, dragging themselves through the negro streets arenas at dawn looking for an angry fix victory,

angelheaded hipsters skaters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of (game) night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking watching in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats mancaves floating across the tops of cities large screen TVs contemplating jazz a revived power play,

who bared their brains to Heaven Leonsis, Boudreau, McFee under the El Metro and saw Mohammedan Capital angels staggering on tenement under roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities minor leagues with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas Tampa Bay and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

a lost batallion hockey team of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon Verizon, the Garden, the Coliseum,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey Phoenix leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall Anaheim, San Jose, Los Angeles,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard Chinatown wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI searching for a win in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin road whites passing out incomprehensible leaflets line changes,

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums hockey arenas naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons more motivated teams,

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists by lesser teams, and screamed with joy more excuses,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom, piss-poor power plays, being “too cute” and taking too few shots on goal,

who scribbled blogged all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,

who cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records iPods of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz DJ Pauly D finished the whiskey and threw up groaning,  moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles arena horns,

who journeyed to Denver DC, who died in Denver DC, who came back to Denver DC & waited in vain, who watched over Denver DC & brooded & loned in Denver DC and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver DC is lonesome for her heroes,

who crashed through their minds in jail the nets waiting for impossible criminals goals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz Verizon,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death the play-offs,

with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years seasons.

Photos by Christian Petersen/Getty Images, Paul Connor/AP and William Burroughs

About Craig

Proudly serving gay hockey fans and players since 2010
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2 Responses to Howl

  1. big al says:

    what’s left to say, Craig?

  2. Jim says:

    Yass! Yass! *finger-snaps*

    Very nice :)

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