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Batters Up

by Michael Gallowglas

Someday, years from now, I’ll be sitting
at the Brooklyn Center for Fiction,
working on some story or other,
and a sound will grow in the background—
soft at first, then it will rise and rise
until it will hit just the right frequency
as the fillings in my teeth. The fillings will buzz
into my mind, creating a whole new kind
of sound that will nearly drown the screams,
screams that will draw everyone outside.
Screams that will draw everyone down
to the East River. Dread Cthulhu himself
will rise from the waters intent
on destroying New York City as his conquest.
His first target will be Lady Liberty.
He’ll break our spirits by breaking that monument.
A bright flash will appear in the sky,
only, it won’t go away, that flash, bright
as the sun, and Gregorian, rag-time hymns
will drown the alien frequency buzzing
through our fillings and into our minds.
A spiritual subway car will fly out
of that perpetual flash, carrying
Jackie Robinson and Babe Ruth from Heaven.
Those two legendary swingers will leap
out of that spiritual subway car and swing away
with their holy baseball bats of righteousness.
Cthulhu won’t stand a chance. Those sluggers
will slug dread Cthulhu back to the depths
chunk by battered chunk, and I’ll head back
to the Brooklyn Center for Fiction
and finish working on some story or other.

From his collection Cameos, which will be released May 28.

 

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My New Hero

by James Finn Garner

Asked to name what was surprising
In the U.S., Shōta, surmising,
Said that by far
‘Twas while in the car
You can turn right on red while you’re driving.

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The Fly Ball

by John Grey

Here I am
in center field,
blue sky,
ball falling,
crowd on edge,
glove flapping
like an albatross’s wing,
now what’s my name again,
where do I live,
who are my parents,
am I five
or twelve or fifteen,
can I tie my own shoelaces,
do I leave the toilet seat
up or down,
am I right-handed, left-handed,
what’s the color of my hair,
am I good at math,
do I know my geography,
what’s that song
that I can’t stop humming,
do I really like that blonde girl
from the next street over,
where are my knees,
what’s this big orange thing
protruding from my hand,
and what about that white projectile
that’s heading in my direction,
do I grab it,
do I let it drop,
why are the other guys
yelling at me,
why am I where I am
on this scruffy patch of green,
a fence behind me,
more green and then
a diamond shape ahead of me,
what is my purpose in life,
is it the very same as my purpose now,
this very minute,
am I a hero or a fool,
do I think too much
about all that goes
without thinking?

 

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Dropping Like Flies

By Robert E. Petras

Dropping like flies Reverend Miller summed up
The demise of our latest late classmate.
Dropping like flies — could the Preach
Be referring to the late Johnny B,
Whose brief time spent on the baseball diamond
Was spent relegated to right field,
Perhaps the most important position
In that by filling it a team saved
Itself the ignominy of forfeiting, possibly extinction,
Because of being one player short,
Which, in the harsh truth, it probably was,
Because the field was filled
By the worst fielder on the team,
Besides the coach’s kid at shortstop,
A kid who couldn’t catch, couldn’t
Throw and couldn’t count,
And probably did not count, a dude
So uncoordinated he couldn’t match his socks,
A four-eyed, three-strike-out-called-out-
Looking artist, like Johnny B. Not Good,
Whose only positive field statistic recorded
Was an assist, a result from what
We called a charity hop from a pop fly that
Hippity-hopped off his head,
Snagged by our savvy, speedy centerfielder,
Whose name eludes me like a wild pitch.

As a classy class prez, I said
Dropping like dominoes, an assessment
Less cliché, more dramatic, more poetic,
More end-of-the-linish.
Dropping like dominoes, I repeated
For more dramatic, poetic effect.
Then I went on to expound in great detail
How our most recent class statistic
Ruled the playgrounds when dominoes,
Jacks and five-card stud were still in vogue,
And that Johnny B. Good still holds
The class record for the most dominoes dominoed
And knowing him he will no doubt
Go well beyond the eternal ten count.
Dropping like dominoes I said
So dramatically, so poetically, so final
Johnny B. got a standing O.

Robert E. Petras is a lifelong Pittsburgh Pirates fan who goes back three stadiums. A lover of baseball with a linebacker mentality, he played on the Marshall University Young Thundering Herd featured in the movie We Are Marshall. He is the author of three books: the humor collections River Rats and Release the Belgium, and the sci-fi novel, The Locust People (upcoming). All are available on Amazon and Kindle.