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Fracked [a hyper-link'd recap poem]: Phillies 4, Braves 0 (10 innings)

"He doesn't come out saying, 'Jesus, get me some runs.' He didn't say that. Never even hints at that, which is very professional."

Don't stop to count the years. Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.
Don't stop to count the years. Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.
Dale Zanine-USA TODAY Sports

Sucked dry and pumped with poison
as if set upon by a thousand mosquitoes
who fill the landscape with unscratchable itches
and slow death by parasite, we await some seismic shift

to a new order of the old lie: that technology will save us, somehow, from death.
Instead what we get is a druggy midsummer nap, pumped full of anti-histamines,
the very thing to detach us from all our senses, gone awry.

This team is fracked.
Each year, blowing air and chemicals under bedrock
To release a fossilized gas, oblivious to renewables
and relying on good old Cole -

A very man mountain, but now smudgy and filled with dirty stuff
forged under pressure,
remaining voluminous, effective, a smoky, slow burn. Hot.

Yet it's all wrong, they still can't
plug all the holes; atop these shaky mountains
beggar windmills spin and spin. Underneath, unseen fires burn out of control
to the junkie's lament: As sweet as this is, it all has to go.

This hilltop town will be emptied of all but the hardiest mutant core,
depleting themselves, bleeding out their own history
of raping the barren while thinking themselves sexy.


[Link to Matt Breen's game story, with subhead quote]