Goldberg-Machine; Everything.
I think that’s the root that many take in Life.
If you played Mousetrap and could get that badminton rocket thingy
What are they called?
Clutches in China, but a biddie in South Carolina?
Even more competitive there than in the Origin-Nation
Of fun table-top games and inherent sports
Betting on a Star
And Athletes made for
Somehow American-fame.
It’s always been like that.
Like peach-baskets in Baltimore;
But it was just the Cousins from SC Lowcountry and NY Upstate
Coming from dairy + rice
And orchards of in-laws in Georgia
And now;
It’s pretty competitive all-around.
I think of the activities that could blight me
In blind rage
And utter seeking
To just get the ball across.
Is Ping-Pong.
There I’ve admitted it.
Years of blighting the ball
Just to hide a career.
Drop the white in the pocket on first turn and suddenly
7 moves from now;
I’ve decided you’ve had a trophy-or-three by now, as well.
And every fucking stripe is mine because you assumed
Woman-pansy came to play.
Not quite daffodil-grey in shortie-short-shortier shorts than I.
How the hell could I tell you I can’t try out for the middle school’s team.
When I learned internationally.
Woof-throws and Horse was the only game I enjoyed.
A warm up, why not.
My pacer went from 31 requirement and I played 33.
Major Cut season and 4-boulders down
And I got 89 and I took a 30-minute break
And somehow I never expected
To break-it.
My pace.
Wall sits – and I still do
Bar Exercises everyday.
I never did Ballet.
I did Belenatishyzchachiki.
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