Giovanni U: The Dons' up-tempo offense features excellent ball-handling and pass- making skills, but suffers quite a few blocks - and in the clutch they go straight to hell.
Tosca A+M: The Rebels' offense is pure artistry, especially in the paint. Their defense absolutely slays big men, but their flops are sadly ineffective. At game's end, they have a tendency for tragic drops.
Carmen Tech: The Matadors feature a tight-knit squad of one-and-done gypsies who have a real knack for setting traps and tying their opponents up in knots. They're often called for traveling and flagrant fouls (particularly against opposing guards), and a trip to the Final just doesn't seem to be in the cards.
Aida State: The Raging Egyptians have celebrated quite a few victories, but an overdependence on an ancient triangle offense leads to one too many fatal isolation plays.
Friday, March 11, 2016
(For Robert Pesich)
"To the ancient Egyptians, these stars (of Orion's Belt) were the resting place of the soul of Osiris, god of the underworld and a symbol of creativity and the continuity of life…"
--National Audubon Society Field Guide to the Night Sky
Starving tenor finds the stone on a
black sand beach covered in driftwood
(If I said the wood was white as bones
I would be giving it away)
He kneels on the sand
where the ocean comes through the rocks and
reaches into the ribs of a burnt-out cello
plowing a pyramid of blackened chars
until he fingers the edges of its mineral heart and
pulls it into the sun
(If I said it was as red as Betelgeuse
I would be lying)
The stone is a jealous stone
it takes away his lovers
takes away his sleep
leaves his pockets thin and sallow
Musetta, the woman you cannot have
but if you hold her to your ear
she will sing you bright waltzes
and turn her lollipop eyes at you across the café
But the song and the glance are not enough
so Marcello takes the stone and grinds it up
spreads it across his Sunday salad
(If I said the dressing was Roquefort
I would be saying too much)
The fragments trunkle their way through his veins and
gather at the aorta, pressing
northward to make his heart skip
on nights when Artemis neglects her duty and
burst like meteors through the Paris streets
Years after Mimi's last breath
he comes back to the sea to
bare his skin to the inkwell sky and
wait for Orion's Belt to burn him down
leaving a coal as red as Betelgeuse
for the timpani waves to steam away
Notes: A dear friend, an opera singer, says this is the ultimate description of the artistic life. She's biased, of course, this being taken from La Boheme, but it has proven to be deadly accurate in the years since I wrote it. An early editor couldn't get over the literal visual of "toss her lollipop eyes at you across the cafe," so it became "turned." And it's ironic that I would choose Marcello over Rodolfo, since he and I are both poet tenors, but I always considered Rodolfo a poser. Marcello is pure artist, and this is likely the best poem I will ever write.