for Kevin Killian
I went to a sports bar during SUPERBOWL SUNDAY wearing a Phillies baseball cap and ordered vodka with orange juice. Every once in awhile I would raise a fist and yell “GO PHILLIES!” At first people around my table murmured. Then I was told to shut up while taking my notes for the poem. I was waiting for the person in the room who would confront me and I finally found him. AG = Angry Man:
ME: WOO HOO PHILLIES GO PHILLIES GO GO GO!!
AG: HEY BUDDY WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU IT’S THE SUPERBOWL!!
ME: YEAH MAN I KNOW, WOO HOO HOO HOOOOO GO PHILLIES!!
AG: DUDE ARE YOU FUCKING HIGH!?
ME: What? HEY MAN this is PHILADELPHIA YOU CAN’T DISS THE PHILLIES WHEN YOU’RE IN PHILADELPHIA!!
AG: I ROOT FOR THE PHILLIES WHEN IT’S BASEBALL SEASON DUDE!!
Some of the others had been waiting for the brave man to confront me so they could be louder with their condemnation. THESE were the men I wanted to look at, the weak ones, the bottom feeders who need someone with more nerve to step forward and speak for them before they open their mouths. A brave man has never once frightened me. Weak men are the danger, always seeking ways to hide their cowardice at the expense of others. And there they were, all around me, and it was just like old times. I held out my hand to the brave man and thanked him. “YOU’RE THANKING ME!?” “Yeah, thank you.” He shook his head, “Okay man.” I took more notes and my notes became a poem.