Justin Stone's creekbed

songs, prayers, poetry, stories, art, photographs, moving pictures, fondnesses, tall-tales and meditations

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Location: missouri, el paso

The Anterior Insula and Hwy W

Monday, June 22, 2009

Our Heart

You could say he was pressing, chasing,
Falling behind, not seeing pitches.
That he’d lost it.
You could say a lot of things,
And people did, because people are always saying things.
But a saying said a thousand times means nothing.
Ol’ Jimmy “Three Hands” Swinger,
He of the most unfortunate name.
“Rally killer” they called him.
“The piss in the peanuts.”
“The ball park dog.”
Deep-seated cringe..
The one game he hit into three triple plays.
Three triple plays. One game.
And the season on the line.
(The season then was always on the line.)
I mean, that’s history,
But who wants to be on that side of history?
There then a great caterwaul
“You wait your whole life for this.”
(flashes and more)
“I think I’m....”
“Where were we?”
(red-rimmed and honest)
(too so)
“The fans,” he trailed off,
“They got a point.”
(one thousand years under water)
Know you the lusty boos?
The contempt of a city?
“I can hear it when I sleep.”
(the eyes are wet)
“I should probably have been a fisherman.”
“Not too late,” the pundit quipped.

Be not afraid

(the sound of cars passing in the rain)

He was always walking off the field,
We see him from behind—
Arms at his side,
Head down,
In stride.
How, no one is to know—
He is and was
Walking off the field—

Song Of Three Hands
Song Of Swinger

“In my mind I’m flying out of the ballpark
And the angels are on their feet.
Silence gives way to something special...
( )
Our old heart redeeming...

When you’re a child
You’re a child
You never have to forget anything
Three hands, red and blue and green
Coming round the corner home
A sea of you, waterlife, clean
Coming round the corner home
Three hands sure and sure and seen

we are wet with love

home home home

flying from field
and home

to the sunlight with fish

I had a dream you were dreaming...