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Empty Weight

Well, we are in that certain slant of light again.


Wintah aftahnoons?


Yep. And the heft of scattered Sox talk.


Fucking oppressive.


A mofo Heavenly Hurt.



The days are getting longer
Can Spring be far away?
We leave hot stoves behind us
and look toward Opening Day.

Nice Dickenson. But when it comes to mornings, I prefer Kristopherson:

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.

Never much cared for Emily. But I really am fond of that guy who wrote, "There was a young girl from Nantucket..."

That's pretty much all I got, poetry-wise.

USA Today has the Sox's Grapefruit League schedule in the paper and online today. Pitchers and Catchers report Feb. 20th. Woo Hoo!

You said it. This period is so bad it's reduced to: "Hey, the Rangers DFA'd Joe Inglett, he could be a good utility pickup."

The Opening of Spring Training sucks: about 90 minutes of life then for six weeks you're the guy in the Twilight Zone ep with the relativistic stopwatch who tries to rob the bank.

This morning was cold
As I made to the grove without expectation
Some hundred sonnets in my pocket. Old.
To read her if she came.
presently the sun yellowed the pines
And my lady came not, in blue jeans and a sweater.


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