I hardly remember
What it was like
Before it was
What it is
Before what was
Was forgotten
Before we named
That which being named
Within the dug out
Lies
Outside
The realm of truth
Plucked
Like the string
Or the apple
Heard, tasted, eaten
Thoroughly enjoyed
Before being digested
And put back on the shelf
Or wadded up and thrown
Away with all the other
Things we daily divest/ingest,
Process and make part of ourselves
Integrating hypocrisy with righteousness
On deck in the batter’s box of the big game
We heartily step up the sarcasm, jeering our opponents
Then in the seventh
At the plate of truth
Bases loaded
By conjecture’s softball pitch
Three on, two outs
Profundity falls prey to intellectualism
In a slow, high arc toward a dead drop
Strike one
Salivating for the homerun hit
We curse the dirt and spit
Strike two
Proselytizing into foul territory
We choke up on the altered bat of renunciation
Coach signals a secret mudra
The sacrificial bunt
All roads
To that greatest of destroyers
Aye, batter,batter,batter,batter,batter,batter,batter
Aye, battah, battah, battah, battah, battah, battah
Nobattah, nobattah, nobattaaahhh
SWING!
