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Hustle [a hyperlink'd baseball poem in four parts]

In honor of Domonic Brown, upon the occasion of his removal from the 30-day Shun List. Some links NSFW.


Charlie Hustle was a gambler undone by a poet
who understood the game should be kept pure
of flim-flam men, 3-card Montys, corner pimps,
something-for-nothing numbers-runners and confidence men:
an impossible task.


Always the hustle is the same: Win now,
blow yer load. The dopes and artists
who clumsily twang the bras of this summer's virgins under dark boardwalks
and cast their eyes downward on hot summer nights, reading John Donne,
waste their time looking for The One and find only imperfect women
as tank-topped racks, freshly blown-
out, sashay by, ovulating.


Hustlers never stop flapping their flappers,
plying their city-fried wares,
and plunging their buckets into worried wells. Hush now.
The game can be played by mutes, observed in cathedrals by
acolytes with eyeballs, clipboards, radar guns and smart phones.


is a farmhouse, whose occupants know
harvest-time means work; the ripest fruits
sow valuable seeds, and vice versa:
Fill the granary in September, when the leaves start to yellow.
The point is not to starve.
If all goes right, the bread we break
may be better than last year's.