A Brief History of Time in Left Field

by M. G. Moscato


1A Brief History of Time in Left FieldI have seen the aurora borealis behind my eyelids the pitcher-mystic muses. Muses to confused reporter   whose   beats   demand   marquee   quotes   on   infinite   loop   as   political   sport.   Sport entertainment programming loves any horse in the race no matter what carrot adrift when studio interviews reduce soundbites. Soundbites abridge all nuance, all metaphysical concerns cut except astrophysics. Re: the stars. Their half-lives, whether dense batters or bright hurlers. They radiate across billions. Light years on a field of play. Until of coursethey—Don’t celestial bodies emit climbing ERAs? Too many errorsfor carpet-furrowed turf or cratered fescue-scapeswhere every tossed orb holds rogue potential to spray, dribble, bounce. Tip foul or soar. Just about anywhere in the chaos-glittering. Cosmos being the biggest, battiest darn ballpark. Whose vacuum abhors nature’s multitudinous roar? What city’s minglingraces and culturesacorporate jumbotron would just as soon stomp. Assimilate, hush into hotdogs for price of admission. It’s not green-eyed or green-walled. Not like Fenway’s left-field  monster.  It  works  in  unmysterious  ways  with  names that  read eminent  domain.  Runs  over  Mexican-Americans.  Forgets  Chavez  Ravine  after  local ostentations or federal funds intended to develop housing when housing meant stadium. Meant a city of angels put a roof over the head of millionaire Walter O’Malley. His Brooklyn Dodgers newly  relocated.  California,  sun-spoilt.  Where  so  many  diamonds  per  capita  once  outshone  the intergalactic night league. Even these are fatedforcollapsewhen black holes love loss as much as light. Which bringsa kind of terrible. Beauty. Please rise to see how it lies: a long, bruised line. Drive—into  horizon.  Through  infield  gap  and  into  the  mauve,  dead  star  cloud.  Root  for  it. Whatever home team. Any cause. See how it floats, spins in the pitted core of the unknown. Knows little of box seats. Nothing of clocks.


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