Flash, a Burbank California talent scout dressed to the pips,
Hits the "Welcome to Tiskilwa" (Illinois) slow-the-fuck-down rumble strips
In a National premium crossover black rental car
With a line on his next major movie star
Discovered last month in the cyber fleshpots of the triple deep deep deep web,
An eighteen-year-old gay-for-pay live-cam celeb
Cum (pun not intended) high school basketball player,
An ordinary high school senior with just one extra layer.
Flash stops at a gas station and buys Nature Valley granola bars;
He chats with a gas station attendant named Lars
Who asks if he's in town for the basketball game.
"Sort of," Flash laughs, "And I also sort of came for the fame."
He leaves the gas station, and finds the high school easily.
"In a small town everything goes just breezily!"
Outside the gymnasium are three visiting team yellow school buses,
Inside, an acoustically live roof above bare flat steel trusses
From which hang conference team pennants, championship banners,
And an American flag, each one validating the high school building planners,
As do double sized glazed structural facing tiles the color of honey,
And the matched maple wood playing floor gleaming beneath electrically sunny
Arc lamps, while the nighttime darkness outside hides behind Works Progress Administration
Signature (Owens-Illinois) Insulux silico-soda-lime translucent glass block fenestration.
Hidden also, where fans must not see, are locker rooms,
With white enameled pressed brick wainscot, Icy Hot fumes,
And pale Palmolive green Beautex plaster walls:
Everything so clean and sudsy it incandesces and it slips and finally it falls.
Home team fans pound on retractable Douglas fir board bleachers,
Fans all ginned up by the pregame rally which features
Pretty cheerleaders wearing blue whipcord rickrack trimmed pleated skirts.
"Cheerleaders are popular; the pom-pon squad though are slutty cock-teasing flirts."
Oh, and the pep band too,
And the color of school spirit, which is white and blue.
At a high school basketball game, a thousand things happen all the same time,
Some part of a plan, some improvised on a dime;
And running through it all, an imaginary river on which float fragments of conversation
Much of it freighted with implication, prevarication, physical education, and dark insinuation.
"Lysol, in proper dilution,
Is the sanitary solution
To periodic vaginal pollution."
A Methodist minister asks, "Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?"
A stoned wrestler answers, "I'm so ripped to shreds, I probably am."
"There's the national anthem a cappella octet—"
"You know the mezzo has not descanted this season yet."
A kid eating ice cream from a small Styrofoam cup,
Says, "This flat wooden spoon makes me want to throw up."
A concession stand crone licks her thumb and counts bills, making change from an embossed leather-finish gun-metal gray powder-coated SteelMaster cash box with cantilever coin tray.
The booster club sells spirit wear from a folding table with a blue stain-resistant blow-molded polyethylene top near the gymnasium entryway.
At halftime, reading the local newspaper while waiting in the concession stand line
Flash notes with dismay a sports page article, "Brady to sign
This Spring with Illinois State."
Flash sneers menacingly, and thinks, "He's going to sign at any rate,
But not with a college.
What would he even do with all that useless knowledge?
If I had those movie star looks
I'd never even touch the books.
Plus everything's online now anyway; people don't buy books anymore.
Christ, they don't even rent videos from an adult book store.
This 'double kill siege gun' does however got plenty of brass,
As well as a killer pocket pass.
But having now seen him in person, I really don't think
He's got many years left as a celebrity twink."
Now he cyberstalks Floyd Brady on his iPhone X;
He laughs and he texts his supervisor whose name is Ken:
"You already scoped I assume his Facebook page?
All the Internet's apparently a stage!
So wholesome it's fulsome.
Dead giveaway he leads a sinful double life."
Ken answers, "We'll cut the valuable half out with a knife."
"What one wants is maximum pulchritude—"
"And just a soupçon of attitude."
"Women stars you can find for sure, at Schwab's corner drugstores."
"A dime a dozen, like Hollywood Boulevard dirty crack whores."
"Male stars are harder. The audience must want to be them."
"Yes, that’s the thing: actors give their audiences freedom."
Sport, however, is not acting: it is reality,
Although it shares with art the quality of finality.
And both cause people to feel real live needs,
But when an athlete is injured, it is genuine red blood that he bleeds:
Tried and savaged, ripped to shreds by spikes.
But then tomorrow, a brand new pair of Nikes.
Feralum safety treads on HAKO factory-waxed asphalt tile covered stairs
Are like acting, and so are the violent clean pleasures that strike you unawares:
Hot bood like Lysol burns.