And now the thrilling conclusion of this week's prospect roundup, all poetry'd up for your pleasure. I wanted to have this done a bunch earlier, but decided instead to watch 11 innings of what turned out to be hot vomit. As I was out for a postgame dog walk (working on my metaphors and such), I got the sense that, barring absolute defilements of the farm system, my hunch is that Phillies Spring Training in 2012 may be a real happening.
A defensive mind
conceives of a world of perpetual onslaughts
and masks appearances. Hides easily, is prone to hunker down, under.
Many never return, murdered in dark corners
never to be seen again. Others, less common, with gleams in their eyes
Wait forever to strike back.
If you hold back
it means you have something still now
that might be unleashed. The question is plain:
Once set free, where will your animal run? Is it enough
to rely on the training, the endless sits and stays,
the choke chains and beef jerky -
or do all four heels get turned, wildly scrambling over
the squirrely circles of regret?
The fear of the shaft is pitch-darkness.
Each opposing batter is a precious jewel; the reflection
of his helmet in the noonday Florida sun is all air and sparkle. I long to emerge
from the dugout, each twist of my body an effort to extract it out.
To make waves, not be placid, is the job,
so I imagine cruise ships to the Dominican, floating white whales
on placid blue seas, their wakes barely visible. I whirl, I churn,
under the water of a floating pile of money. Making waves.
Tomorrow maybe, they spell my name right.