I HIT THE WILD
MAN HITTING ME
Holding a baseball bat, this guy I knew couldn't
pitch at all - he was fast, he could throw, but that
was it. I was smart enough to just get out of my way.
That's when I was young. Young enough for baseball
games in a dreary, dusty ballfield. Then I got older,
and realized too soon that the guy hitting me was within.
This subconscious part of me, crazy, always trying to
drive out, smash the fences with his broad home home
swing, throwing pitches at others' heads. It was lethal
stuff, and he still lives here. Inside me, there's a poker
just always trying to come out. My weapons are the pen
and brush; I no longer wield a bat. I don't care for
consequence, I'm way too old for that.
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