There Are No Florescents from the Stadium Tonight

Balls are still sprayed across the infield and outfield grass and skirting pass John Jay’s glove and Torii Hunter’s nose dives in Big, Bad Boston and Dee-troit and Saint Louie and the City of Angels but October Mayhem has passed over Flushing Queens.


A little lush music will still lead us onward and the glow and the hum from the computers will drone us all into staying up way past the time when we know what to do with ourselves. All the way to the time, when making nonsensical decisions about podcasts and porn and patheticness and so much disquietude emerges when self-control’s battery is not fully charged.


To God be the glory, not only when the stadium lights flicker and then fade, but when all of humanity’s pizazz fires up the school in full yell, To God be the glory.


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