Leagues and Love

Out of My League
~ Big Frank Dickinson

There is the way of grouping people
Where certain characteristics of the group
Are assigned as defining criteria for them;
Much like the baseball players who play well
Are in the minor leagues and the hotshots are major leaguers.
So in the world of dating, evidently,
There are also leagues; not organized, of course,
But recognized by the members of each.
So , for example, a pimply, unathletic, moron
Who had a crush on a cheerleader would say:
I like her, but she’s out of my league.
It’s funny that it is the other who is identified as
Being outside your league.
This might be some small consolation.
She’s an outsider, not you.
Of course that outside is always more desirable
Than the inside which you are in.
So she asks me if there is anyone
That I think is out of my league;
And I say, “no.”
She thinks this is hilarious – ridiculous.
She believes it is a kind of absolute:
People are grouped in leagues (objectively)
And there are, by definition, some
Who are not in mine – or more to the point:
I’m not in the league of certain women,
Explicitly: the gorgeous, the rich, the famous etc.
I try to explain, that I believe that matches
Occur for different reasons than league membership.
She irritates me by telling her family and friends;
“He thinks that there is nobody out of his league.”
Well, this way of putting it puts me off.
It’s putting me into a league that I never chose
And then, by implication, makes me into
First of all someone who believes in leagues,
And secondly someone who believes
They are in the major leagues as far
As looks, money, desirability etc. go.
It’s like the old saw: “Are you still beating your wife?”
If I say no – then I’m admitting that I do believe in leagues,
And if I say “yes” then not only do I believe
But I believe I’m hot shit, which is not the point I’m trying to make.
The point I am trying to make is that as soon
As you use the word ‘league’ you are distorting the whole
Concept of compatibility into a hierarchy of limited categories.
Then, at this point, the metaphor changes from league play
To a commercial transaction where each person has
A limited number of chips: some for looks, some for money,
Some for professions, some for personality, etc.
Then instead of meeting within a league and getting it on,
People trade in their chips for the person they want.
Hence the stereotypical, on the surface, match
Is really explained as a commercial tradeoff:
She puts in her beauty chips and he his money markers;
They are of equal worth and they march off to the cashier together.
Well this seems equally unacceptable, and more to the point – wrong.
Such a commercial match would have to be rationally made;
And we humans are notoriously irrational. We choose mates
As much for cute noses, and quirky senses of humor as for
Piles of chips, no matter what the label.
People fall in love they don’t negotiate love;
Nor do they deal exclusively with fellow leaguers.
I like to think that we are together because we love each other,
But, maybe I’m fooling myself, and unconsciously, I’ve
Rationally exchanged the chips and identified us as fellow leaguers.
Still, I’m a romantic and dislike both
Categories and commercial transactions – especially for love.
I believe it starts without reason; though the end is given one.
We love beyond league or chips
Only later does reason this eclipse.

Cross Purposes - a poem

Cross Purposes
--- Big Frank Dickinson

The wall of trees was planted for privacy;
After the fire they hid the charred timbers.

He bared his soul to his lover;
She told him to cover it up.

They went to college for a better view;
After Sarte, Algebra, and Western Civ they still saw nothing.

The apology was a bit late, but it was heartfelt;
It opened wounds that had not healed.

The bread was thrown to feed the duck;
Lodging in its throat: no more quacks.

He swam to the outstretched arms;
They both went down together.

She stooped to aid the fallen man;
His survivors took her to the cleaners.

She told him the truth - it's what he asked;
He lied about wanting it.

Alms given with good intent;
Used to buy what's ill.

The mission brings the written word
That replaces a thousand years of tradition.

Love professed and care extended
Resulting in tears and resentment.

Good intentions brought to bear
Can still result in an burning tear.

Rattlesnake Ridge Trail

Big Frank hiked up to a fantastic view of North Bend, Washington, from where there was a great view of Mt. Si. The hike up was fairly gentle with lots of switchbacks. However, Big Frank made the mistake of doing this with new boots on and that pretty much stripped his heals. Still it was worth the hike. He returned later just to view the lake and when he returned to his car his window had been smashed and Tammy's purse and bag had been stolen - bummer of a way to end the trip. Still even with plastic on the window on the way back to Spokane, there were lots of good memories of the 3 days in Seattle and North Bend. Well worth a smashed window.

Synesthetic You

Synesthetic You
for Tammy

-- Big Frank Dickinson

The image of your touch is
A girl in pigtails running toward swings.

The sound of your skin is a gentle wind
Playing with cattails on a prairie pond.

Your breath is of a time
Long gone yet still to come.

Your voice carries the fragrance
Some pealed peaches pushing my tongue.

And the taste of your heart is
The siren song gone long.

I Got Here As Soon As I Could

Got Here as Soon as I Could
--- Big Frank Dickinson

"I wasn't born here, but I got here as soon as I could." ~ Bumper Sticker


I wasn’t born here – I was born there;
And few there rushed to get there
Because there is North Dakota.
Those who came, came slow;
My great grandparents took a ship
From Odessa and arrived in their forties.
Maybe that was as soon as they could.
My other forebears did it in stages
New York, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and then – at last - NoDak,
With trunk stickers that no doubt said:
“I took my own sweet time getting here.”
I myself got to a lot of places as soon as I could:
Arizona at the age of 19;
Minnesota (moving backwards as far as my ancestors are concerned) at 24;
Budapest (busting through the iron curtain) at 29;
Poland at 30;
Then as soon as I could in succession to
New York, Japan, Texas, Singapore, and Washington.
But it wasn’t really as fast as I could,
It was rather when it seemed right.
I also left those places – when it seemed right.
Nobody has a bumper sticker that says:
“I left here as soon as I could”
Because that would indicate that you
Were still here, making it a lie.
“I got out of there as soon as I could”
Would leave everyone wondering where is there.
I might be here to stay, where I am now,
But I still wouldn’t say;
“Got here as soon as I could”
Because
I didn’t.

If You Lived Here You'd Be Home Now

Big Frank thinks that bumper stickers can be poetic inspiration. Why not? Epigraphs are very popular these days. They are often quotations from well-known poets, philosophers, or popular songs. Why not bumper stickers - that's what Big Frank says.

You'd Be Home Now
-- Big Frank Dickinson

"If you lived here you'd be home now." ~ Bumper Sticker

Inside this car is a face, impassive and moving fast,
Flashing by you–
Solitary in his aluminum bubble;
Going somewhere unremarkable
That is reflected in the blah look that
This journey has evoked in his face.
Yes, this is a traveler, but the journey is so routine
That from the look on his face he
Could as well be walking down the hall at work
On the way to the restroom, the conference room, or to
His own drab workstation. Where is he really going?
To the grocery store to buy toilet paper, to church to buy
Redemption, or to meet someone who is impassively
Moving through space very fast to meet him.
No doubt, the composed face is being bathed in its
Own favorite music, warmed or cooled to the exact
Temperature selected, and perhaps communicating
Via phone or text with another impassive traveler who
Has entered also this pause of speed on rubber wheels
As he zips onward toward what comes next,
For it is what comes next that has set this person
Zipping along, wrapped in chosen noise, or . . .
Perhaps with the radio off bathed in thoughts – traffic
Meditation – silence of the many nows passing
By unnoticed while the many thens are watched.
You watch him pass you over and over and over again.
He watches you also . . . only in passing.
You do not wave or smile as you would if
You passed on horseback, or a bike.
Your windshield and his could as well be opaque;
You take no notice, and when you do and
You catch his eye you look away -
Quickly, almost like he had caught you
Peeking in his window at home, for
He is at home in his favorite wheeled lounger;
If you lived here you would be home now too.