Foam Number One

Kirkwood Adams


Wow, how we killed our rival, a trouncing, 				 
	a shutout, we pummeled them good. 

Coach instilled a take-no-prisoners attitude			 
	into our boys, our boys executed.

Out on the block, people jock out hardcore.
	Folk who before took a knee

in prayer bump chests or highfive midair. 
	Strangers hug. They share liquor.

Dudes’ torsos protrude sedan windows 
	and sunroofs. Such centaurs.

Gentlemen start their engines. We fawn
	for horsepower. Car horns

beatbox for forgotten-hair-band flow,
	a music to fuck everything

and just air guitar or fist the night sky
	with body blows as winds ruffle

gently the weeping of toilet paper willows.
	Joy cradles each citizen

in the pocket of it’s lacrosse stick.
	Nike sutures together all 

the quartered parts of our body politic,
	parts that feel the phantom body

drive strong to the basket. It’s a clinic.
	Welcome to the winner’s full circle.

We join this honor guard gone wild and axe
	our unflagging pennants

shoulder-to-shoulder with brothers-in-arms.
	It’s a where-were-you moment.

We photograph each other photographing us. 
	“Go to hell, Backwater Nemesis!”

we scream to global audiences with sis boom
	booyah! Recounting goal after goal

so proudly we hail highlights live streaming. 
	Scholia shit talk our foe’s weak plays.

“E’er Backwater Nemesis sucks orbs.
	Zounds! Unhorsed like a pussy.”

Instant replay: Unhorsed like a pussy.
	Bitches, please. Our march

motors siege machines in the city’s swathes 
	of recursive isometric polygons.

By piggyback, by bicycle, by barrow, we go,
	stopping to climb up a lamppost.

We claim this lobby in the name of End Zone
	beyond the arena’s iron crucible.  

This street becomes end zone. That dead end  
	is more end zone. Those puddles too.

Every step we tread we’ve scored again.
	Imagine a field without sides, 

goalposts, or lines. Fields of pure end zone.
	Governments overturn like cars.

Bonfires test the loyalty of fair-weather fans
	who doubted our lettermen.

Yeah, our starters are all black but, damn,
	them boys can play ball.

Gangway for Lady Luck, bound and gagged,
	hoisted on a palanquin. Click

this link for a clip of her flashing her tit.
	We’ve got spirit. Our heartbeats

prick our breasts like medals we bestow
	upon on each other for valor. Ouch.

In libraries, against the glass, within reason,
	transmitting to island colonies, 

from bank to bank, along highways, up yours,
	between antennae and devices,

genuflected at the feet of the stone paragon 
	who palms earth like a basketball,

coast to coast, off offshore rigs, we chant:
	We won big. We won big. We won big.


Kirkwood Adams has no bio.