...tapes blastin' Iron Maiden Live!!!

Granted, it may seem that I've been something of a forgotten prisoner... but sometimes even rhythm takes a reprieve. Meanwhile, I must trust in nature and let the tumblers find the grooves. Words elude me of late but I haven't looked deeply into the twilight to see if anything was staring back. One final test to pass, it appears, and the last of the black plague will be expelled into the spring air where it cannot survive. Only I will remain. Hyuk. The doctors orders keep me in check, limiting my activity so I sit and plot and fester and heal and diversify and coagulate and give generously and narrow my views and drink socially and exceed the limits.

My portrait of Coach Petrino rode the console the last two days and there are nine new Falcons to welcome to Atlanta. In this time of growth, hope overflows and my optimism cuts new canyons. The Braves show signs of something special and I become a powerful scanner during gametimes. And since I feel so positive and magnanimous I'm not going to mention the ongoing cancer of Chip Caray and my bleeding ears.

Taking one more spin

The numbers dance in the cave

Feel them in the dark

Lamentations of the women...

Normal weather seems to have gained a toe-hold and every day is an excuse to take out the reborn Miata. The Atlanta Braves are off to a marvelous start. The winning is a great salve for the blood that seeps from my ears upon hearing the bleating of Chip Caray. Snarl. The seasons of the Hawks and the Thrashers ended on consecutive days last week. The Thrashers made the playoffs and thoughts of raising the cup flashed in my mind but reality thundered back and now we'll have to wait til next year to see if we can just win a playoff game.

Feeling the moment

Certainly a season high

The Smyrna sun sinks

Hockey and vowels
April has to find her way
Baseball in the cold

Home white uniforms
The spin around the bases
House money, so far


Here's Jonny letting out a roar to let all the lizards of the county know to take shelter. The tails of those who failed to heed her warning litter the drive.

Bit by Lightning

Where does inspiration strike in the night? A spring rain is, in fact, only a mist and disappoints the thirsty clays and mosses. I think I'm probably the first to turn that phrase which is only cool if it sorta works. And I think it does. I'm open to suggestion, to a limit so my shields are down and I'll accept the arrow of the Cupid equivalent that shoots inspiration. Wow, that got away quickly.

The Braves are off to a bludgeoning start, but many games now I must listen to the banal dronings of Chip Caray. Waah! What happened to the soothing voices of summer, the homespun highjinx of Ernie Johnson and Skip Caray and Pete Van Weiren, to a lesser extent. I then grew to love Don Sutton who erased any ill will accrued when he was a Dodger. Now they've handed the keys to the kingdom to the nightmare spawn, the grinning jester that has the king's ear and is hated by all the castle. Ugh.

My own skull stares back at me but no Judgement will be handed down because all are welcome in the light of the flashbulb and I hope it arouses the fire of my innermost soul but more likely I'll wake up to raisin bran crunch in the early afternoon and there ain't a damn thing wrong with that.

Indian Winter, I Guess

I lined up this smorgasbord of seasonal delights and now the mercury plunges in dizzying defiance. Tomorrow night the degrees will count in the twenties which seems absurd because the air-conditioning has been on for over a week now. Competitors in the Masters will face cool breezes to cold winds which will turn Augusta National into a Chambre d' Horrors, giving this year's tourney a signature from the outset.

The Atlanta Braves are off to a marvelous 3-0 start, sweeping out of the armpit that is Philadelphia. A weekend tangle with the New York Metropolitans promises drama well above the daily norm. I feel the old swagger coming about when questions had been raised. It feels good to feel good. I realize that there are 159 games to go but there seems to be an attitude in place. I'm aboard.

Waiting for Justice

Which has been here the whole time

Find it tomorrow

Sleep under blankets

With the memory of sun

Alive in my skin

Former greenskeeper, about to become.....

As I emerged from the west and that hole in the ground, I noticed that the green had already taken hold of the southeast, even in my short absence. Like today when the first pitch of the Braves' game was called a strike, that was it; a line had been crossed and the season had begun just as sure as the earth tilts on the axis. The game went in favor of the team with the tomahawks and everything seems to be sliding back into greased grooves. Hopefully the Braves one season on the downs will mirror my own lameness of last summer and we will rise to deserved heights together in 2007.
Meanwhile, I find a happy Justice in the stark blooms that radiate through all the hours and elements. Tuesday will be a day to drive with the top down and escape the seductive, tender shackles of the in-of-doors with its cable television and computers and easel with painting half finished and refrigerator and hollow book with secret compartment and so on. Let's see what I can prove.