Ponyball and Surrealism

I just submitted my first collaborative poem, written with Robert Casserly. We submitted it to the SPEWS for the Second Annual Ed Versluis Memorial Writing Contest. I won't post the poem here, for fear the judges might read it and recognize it from their pool of entries. We chose not to publish as co-poets but under the pseudonym R.K. Casserich.

I still need to revise the short story we wrote to submit in the contest. I also need to enter some of my own stuff, but what?

Saturday, my younger son, Baylin, played yet another game of ponyball. For those of you who don't know, ponyball is the step between tee ball and regular baseball. The difference comes from the pitcher, who is the team's coach or assistant coach. At any rate, I'm non-sporty and only show up to the games to emotionally support Baylin, so last game I wrote poetry using snippets of overheard words. I included it in my "Waiting Series"; Here's the result:


Waiting 2: Ponyball

In Ginger’s voice
Old short Guy
She’s like
Same thing
See if she hits
Its phoenix high

Lot of fights earlier
Can’t make it all happen
At all times, watch
Make the play
Get out
Hussle

—Kyle Stich, 14 May 2005

Yesterday, I was on my way to meet my family at Quizno's for lunch, when I stopped to smell the azaleas. The white ones had no scent, but the deep pink ones emitted a delightful fragrance. As I stood sniffing at the petals, a girl in a primary pink trenchcoat walked towards me. She became the flower I sniffed, and pink fragrance became the entire world—one of those surrealistic moments that make life sweet.

That's all for today. The most pressing question on my mind this week: Should I dress up as a Jedi when I see Star Wars Episode III this weekend?