What A Cleveland Fan Cheers For

*Quick pre-note:  This used to be a blog for a class I had in college.  I guess it still would be.  For now, I'm going to use it as a place to write the things I want to write right now, because I don't know where else I want to put it.

In 2007, Sports Illustrated ran a special issue with the city of Cleveland as its subject.  In the magazine were articles from previous issues about Cleveland, great Cleveland teams, and great Cleveland athletes.  On the cover: Jim Brown and LeBron James.  The past and the present: the legend who represented the greatness of old, and the young man destined to return Cleveland there.

There were articles about the special kind of suffering Cleveland fans have faced since 1964, the last time we won a professional championship in any sport.  The moments have been well documented.  Alas, the magazine claimed, do not lament Cleveland fans!  Your teams are on the rise.  We know what you have gone through, but just look - you made the ALCS, the Browns went 10-6, and of course you have LeBron James!  The future is quite bright indeed!

As I read this magazine at the time I immediately knew, as any other well-knowing Cleveland fan would, and anyone else who knows Cleveland sports well, that doom was on the horizon.  The Browns went 4-12 in 2008 and couldn't get more than 6 wins since, the Indians haven't been back to the playoffs since, and LeBron...

.

If you are a person who doesn't know Cleveland fans, or Cleveland sports well, take a trip on the internet and do a little research.  We have faced countless losses these past 48 years:  losses that defy explanation, that have dropped us to our knees like a punch to the liver, that turn our lights out in a flash like a punch to the jaw.  If the city of Cleveland were a boxer, it would be the punch-drunk old prizefighter, far past his prime.  The man who is a fighter to the core.  Always was, always will be.  The man who had a prime so long ago it's forgotten by everyone else but him.  The man who still can remember, in his brief periods of clarity, the times when he faced another man, ate his best shots, hit him clean, sent him to the ground, and watched the other man get counted down.  A man who still remembers his arm being raised, and even wakes up some times at night with his arm in the air.  The man who has a family that is afraid for him, that tells him to stop fighting.  He doesn't have it anymore.  If he gets in that ring again, he'll most certainly get killed this time.  The man who can't help himself from getting back up, and fighting one more time, believing that if he can just get...one...shot, one clean punch through, on the button, he can raise his hand one last time.

Only he finds himself on the canvas again...again...and again.   Every time.  Sometimes he wakes up staring into the lights above him, considering whether or not he is dead.  Sometimes he gets hit with that body shot, that perfect body shot that makes his body quit but leaves his brain clear.  Clear so he can hear the ten count, and do nothing to stop it.  Every time the man gets in that ring, he is sure to be knocked out spectacularly, and yet - every time he steps in the ring, he steps in with a hope.  A hope he has alone.

Cleveland is that man.  Cleveland fans especially are that man.  We've seen every kind of loss imaginable.  The Browns are most assuredly going 6-10 basically every year, yet when training camp rolls around, there is a fever in the air.  That hope rises up again, and we truly believe it is our year.  Until LeBron wins his championship with the Heat, we truly believe we will win one first, and not because Gilbert said we would.  I personally believe the Indians will win the World Series this year.  We're in second place right now, and so what if the White Sox are streaking, there are eight billion games left!  We can take them!

It is most likely we won't win the World Series this year though.  Nor will we win the Super Bowl (never been to one), or the NBA title...next year.  So what do we have to look forward to?  What do Cleveland fans cheer for?

Cleveland fans cheer for competition.  They cheer for the clarity, the beauty of the sport.  They cheer just to cheer.  They find reasons to cheer for someone and against someone else.  They cheer for perfection; for imperfection.  They cheer to hear themselves be heard somewhere, and sometimes...they cheer to be a little spiteful.  They can cheer for anarchy and chaos.

Cleveland fans are not overly spiteful, or envious of others' successes.  They do, however, enjoy cheering for the failures of overexposed, overrated teams.  They cheer for the underdog KOing the champ.  A head KO may be exciting; the body KO, however, is far more pleasing.  Body KO's are preferred.  Cleveland fans have had so many, it's only fair to heap it upon others when they are so blatantly calling for it.  Then, once the dust has settled, the Cleveland fan can offer empathy only they know.

Cleveland fans only feel truly empathetic when an underdog feels that feeling.  When Butler, for instance, played inexplicable, remarkable team basketball on their cinderella run through the NCAA tournament last year, only to have to fully experience their worst game ever when they needed it the least.  Butler and its fans shared the body blow that night - the realization of the impossibility of their accomplishment, how it felt to know it wasn't their night, be knocked to a knee from the very beginning, and try in vain the rest of the game to get back up.  That game was one long ten count for Butler.

But oh, when that happens to the Yankees...the Red Sox...the Phillies...The Tigers...or the Lakers...the Heat...the Eagles...the Steelers...the Ravens...

Cleveland fans revel in it.  We enjoy the soul being sucked out of them, and the mad scramble that ensues.

I apologize for the level of vitriol in the previous statement.  Let me take a few steps back and reel this one in...

Like I said before, Cleveland does not run on spite or others' successes and failures.

Cleveland fans enjoy the spectacle of those franchises and their pain not because we don't win, and we want them to feel our pain.  The Steelers will never know what the Browns have gone through.  Pittsburgh can't know what we know.  Neither can Chicago, Philadelphia.  Especially not Los Angeles or New York, or Boston.

San Diego hasn't won in the same span, but they're expansion teams compared to us.  They didn't have a history of winning and watch that disappear, yet to come back.

Philadelphia had the 76ers.  In 1983.  And yet, Philadelphia fans are treated with a level of respect and reverence I can't understand.  They are obnoxious, rude, selfish and loud, but all I hear is how great and "passionate" they are as fans.  It reminds me of how, growing up in an Italian family, the loudest uncles are the most respected.  It doesn't matter the awful things they say, or how they treat their wives, that's just treated by the rest of the family as lovable character traits, quirks.  So what if Philly fans booed Santa Claus, and ran Donovan McNabb out of town for a whole decade?  They're just passionate.  That's just who they are.

As for Chicago, and the Cubs...for the love of all that is holy:  stop it.  Stop it right now.  The Cubs haven't won since 1908.  So what?  The Bears won in 1985.  Chicago Bulls:  Michael Jordan. x6.  White Sox?  2005?  I just wish some of those people in Chicago, who are Cubs fans, would have some perspective.

Cleveland fans have been waiting patiently since 1964 for something good.  In 2007 hope was stronger than ever.  Now, in 2012, nothing has changed. All the teams stink,and Cleveland fans still have hope.  I mean, all the Indians have to do is get in the Playoffs, and maybe they make a run like the Cardinals; the Browns had a good draft this year, and Brandon Weeden has been impressing at training camp; Kyrie Irving is a stud for the Cavs, now they just need to build around him.

Like an old prizefighter well past his glory days, Cleveland fans love the game that made them who they are.  The countless shots they have taken over the years will mean nothing when they finally get that one clean punch to break through and win, one last time.

And, as always, Cleveland fans know that whatever has been taken away from them is insignificant compared to their love for the game itself.  They cheer because they love to.

Incredibly Delayed Response to Morris, Young

It seems I find myself apologizing more than I should be at this point.  Regardless, here is the situation we find ourselves in. 

By my own design, I am going to be working late into the night on my performance piece tomorrow, and as much as I've delayed my posting on this blog, I felt it was necessary to do this, finally, before I could continue my work on my performance.

I encountered Tracie Morris first when I was in Sound Poetry with Matt and Jonah (yes, I was in that class too.  I was the quiet one in the back.  Shocking.)  When I first heard her piece, what's it called, "she's too beautiful"? in that Sound Poetry class, I immediately felt like what she did in that piece was what the essence of Sound Poetry was all about.  It was a struggle after that for me to hear any other piece and not feel like it was a letdown after that, because no other piece, to me, truly captured the sounds of words, the power of the sounds of words, and what can happen by experimenting with them.  Her work, and the works we looked at in this class, continued in that direction.  Of course I am not one who knows much at all about other sound poets, but if they could encompass even a fraction of what Tracie does, then they would be a success.


As for our required reading of Picture Palace by Stephanie Young, it was as enjoyable as the other works we have encountered.  Immediately I felt as I read the opening poems that there was plenty of room for emotional reaction, emotional response in the text, as has been the case throughout most of the works we have dealt with in class. 

With regard to possible comparisons between other writers we have recently come across, I don't believe there is much of a correlation between her, Mac Low, or Morris.  Her work in its pacing, word usage, and rhythm remind me far more of poems from other classmates rather than previous poets we have studied - it is not as concerned with tonal performance, repetition, or syntactical conflict as the other poets we have read, including Stein with those other poets.  When I read the poems, they sounded much more immediate, much more visceral with their descriptions, which would be the more effective approach to something called Picture Palace? 

Would the prose in the book be considered prose poetry?  I would categorize it as such:  the sentences are far more measured than standard prose usually is, and though the stanzas are in paragraph form, they feel still very similar to her poems. 

And, of course, nothing is better for a story than experience.  

A Re...No, A De-Evolution

Scene 1 (Man enters scene, exasperated.  Woman is sitting at table.)

Man:  (Sigh)…Hey

Woman:  Hey, what’s wrong?  How was class?

Man:  Ugh.  It’s the same shit again, you know what it is.  We can talk about it later.  I’ve got some more poems to read for you from class!

Woman:  (excited) Yay!!  How terrible are they???

Man:  Oh, you thought last week’s were bad…these ones will put a smile on your face!  Here, read this one from your favorite guy first.

(Woman begins reading.  Stops after a few seconds.)

Woman:  (With contained laugher)  Oh…my…god.  Which guy is this again?

Man:  He’s the one who’s gonna be a professional photographer.  The guy who’s gonna take pictures and write beautiful captions for them, and that’s gonna be his life…

Woman:  Of course of course.

Man:  What’s your favorite line?  Let’s see if you liked the same one I did -

Woman:  Oh, it’s gotta be the third stanza:  “My creased leather wallet wishes it had more green to munch on”

Man:  (Laughs)  Oh yeah, that’s a good one - what about “There’s never enough dough to make the big cookie”?

Woman:  (Laughs)  Yeah, yeah.  Did anyone say anything this time at least?

Man:  No, no, it was the same today.  Everybody LOVED this poem apparently.  No one ever writes anything bad in this class.  Here’s another one for you, this was my second favorite today.

(Man hands woman a poem.  Woman reads for a few seconds.)

Woman:  Oh god!  Sooo pretentious! 

Man:  (Nodding) Yep…mmm hmmm…

Woman:  What’s the deal with the form here?

Man:  Oh, you know how we were introduced to Haiku like, 2 weeks ago?  Well, some people can’t give it up.  You know, because…

Woman:  (interrupting) …because it’s really easy to write?

Man:  Yeah, because they have no idea how it’s supposed to work because they weren’t taught how important…the relationship between image and haiku is…so they don’t give a shit and just use it because it’s the quickest and easiest thing to use…plus, since no one says anything fucking critical about anyone’s work, not even the Professor, then they can get away with it.  It’s just a quick ego boost for them.

Woman:   (seriously)  Is that why you’re in a bad mood?

Man:  Well, yeah.  It’s just the same shit, every day.  Plus, the girl who used the haiku didn’t even use the goddamn form right!  Not even the syllable count!  And everyone ate it up!

Woman:  Well, what about your poem?  Did they say anything about it?

Man:  No.  I got the stunned silence for 5 minutes.  I fucking hate that!  Just because I don’t say that much in class, just because I’m not buddy-buddy with some of these people, they go silent when I present something?  Bullshit...

Woman:  I bet.  Why don’t you criticize then?

Man:  Because I’m a chickenshit.  But really, I can’t because there’s no place for it in the class.  The only person who ever even comes close is the professor, and that’s never real criticism.

Woman:  What did she say about yours?

Man:  I don’t know, something about how I wasn’t clear enough with my images or something…I’ve never tried to write anything for this class, but I swear, if I tried, I’d be far better than this other crap.

Woman:  So do it…

Scene 2  (Man is typing at computer.  Woman is sitting in same spot, reading a book this time.)

Man:  (Typing)…ok, I’m done!  Can I read this to you, and you tell me what you think?

Woman:  Sure, go ahead.

Man:  Alright, the title is “The Beginning,” and <clears throat> okay.  Thank you for taking the time to visit this blog!  My hope with this blog is to create another place in our world where great, undiscovered poets can share their works, so that the world can understand what poetry is again, and remember how great it can be.  If you want to have your poems published on this blog, just e-mail me your submissions.  That being said, I will not publish EVERY poem I receive - but I will consider them all, and will respond to any submitters if they wish.  Thank you for visiting this blog, and please continue creating!

Woman:  (Pause for a few seconds after reading.  With a little shock)  Wow…that’s…kinda douchey.  You sure that’s what you wanna put out there?

Man:  (Offended)  Well, no, it’s not meant to be douchey!  I’m not trying to say I’m better than the people who will submit, I’m just making a disclaimer!

Woman:  Well, yeah, but - you said it in a very condescending way.  Pretty douchey. 

Man:  It’s ok, it doesn’t really matter.  No one’s going to visit this blog anyway.  What if I put my first sonnet on there as a sign of good faith?  You know, self-deprecating and what not…

Woman:  (With some resignation)  Yeah, fine, that’d work I guess.  I’m just glad you’re finally doing something about this.

Man:  Ok, here it is - (begins typing) “I know my poems aren’t always the greatest, and this just might be the proof…”

Love’s Melody

Perhaps this is the way that love begins:
A fearless passion that would inspire
a whirlwind of all the greatest sensations - 
the wanting heart beats hard with desire!
Yet carnal emotions dare not explain
love's full, bright candor or dark enclave.
Our greatest fear will forever remain
The bane of despair we ceaselessly crave:
to sing forever with passion and grace
a love song only one other can sing.
A song that all could not help but embrace;
such music sublime two true in love bring!
     A love song begins with one's hopeful tone;
     true love songs are never finished alone.

“…I hope you enjoyed that as much as it embarrasses me to put it on this…”

Scene 3  (Several months have passed; Man sits at computer.  Woman is out of scene, but still can be heard)

Man:  Man.  I don’t even know why I’m checking my e-mail for this blog anymore.

Woman:  What?  What was that?

Man:  Nothing, nothing.  I was just saying I don’t know why I even check this e-mail anymore.

Woman:  Yeah, well, I don’t know why you would either.  Did you even ever tell anyone about this blog or whatever?

Man:  Well, no, not exactly. 

Woman:  What’d you expect, you think the internet’s gonna take care of that for you?

Man:  (Laughing)  Yeah, kinda.

Woman:  Well, you can wait forever on that shit.  What do you think the odds are that someone’s just gonna happen to “stumble” upon your blog?  Oh, and, how many poems are on there that aren’t yours, compared to how many that are?

Man:  Oh, well, let’s see.  (Man scrolls and counts)  …there’s…16 from me, 4 from someone else.

Woman:  And…

Man:  …and those “someone else”-s came from other books.  Not e-mailers.

Woman:  There you go.  Are you sure this blog isn’t just for you?  Just a way to print out your poems so you can see them on the internet somewhere?

Man:  (Shaken)  Well, no, because there’s my disclaimer -

Woman:  (Interrupting)  Your douche disclaimer.  Even if I was someone who had a poem, and “stumbled” onto this blog, I wouldn’t submit it because of that.  Again, how many poems of yours have you had published?

Man:  (Ashamed) Well, technically…none.  But I did have someone publish one of my poems on their blog…

Woman:  Yeah, that doesn’t count.  And how many have you sent out to be published?

Man:  (More shaken, a little more depressed)  …about 40?

Woman:  Right.  So, let me get this straight.  You make a blog under the pretense that it’s a free forum to “advance poetry,” but you don’t tell anyone about it; you’ve sent your poems out to a bunch of places and they haven’t been published…and most of the poems that make up this blog are yours.  Right?

Man:  (Getting defensive)  Well yeah, but I sent those poems out to the wrong magazines!  The wrong publications!  I didn’t know then that I have to start out lower, I can’t just send a poem of mine to the Southern Review and expect it to be published…

Woman:  So why haven’t you sent out any more poems then?  Why do you keep putting them on this blog?

(Man sits in silence for a second.  Goes back to his computer and begins typing.)

Man:  (Typing)  “One day, possibly, this blog will open up to more people, and lots of different works will be on this - works that will help all involved make some difference in this world we live in.  For now, I am content with putting on work I've made, and some of my favorite poems.  I know it's been a little lopsided, but I will change that soon.  For now, this is my attempt to play with an iambic tetrameter with a Spenserian stanza.

The Song of 'I'

The winds’ first song blows swiftly by.

Its music is so sweet to hear

and steady as a mountain high.

The cool, crisp gust brings eyes to tear-

but others cannot listen here.

They hear each other wail and moan!

Such company betrays the ear:

I like it when I am alone.

It’s far more fair to be alone.

The pairs hold hands and speak in tongues

and softly hold each other close

to feel the heat from lovers lungs.

A sadness fills my heart for those

who settle with that life they chose.

I flee to nature’s dulcet tone

beyond the jagged tongues of foes.

I like it when I am alone.

It’s far more fair to be alone.

But oh- how tender their embrace:

an mmm… the touch of lips: a kiss;

How satisfying love must taste!

A touch of tongue electric; this

excited rush of limpid bliss!

If only they could learn to hone

their hearts to hear… but-  I digress.

It’s just as fair to be alone.

I like it when I am alone.

The wind is all the love I need

(but I can never hold the wind.)

That peace I found is all I need

(but I can never kiss the wind.)

The subtle songs of silence blend

to lesser lovely light unknown!

(forgive my heart, it never sinned…)

- I like it when I am alone.

It’s just as fair to be alone.

The wind could never break my heart

(it doesn’t have a heart to break.)

The peace it brings will never part

(nor does it give a love to take.)

But… tangent love I cannot make

from that content I’ve always known!

(I fear I’ve made a grave mistake…)

I like it that I am alone?!

It’s not as fair to be alone!!!

The pairs, they move along the shore

sublime beneath the twilight sky.

A lonely man finds peace no more –

How slow… the years… they pass me by.

A soft, swift wind, and flask of rye.

The song, it plays a different tone.

The empty requiem of ‘I’:

“I like it that I am alone.

It’s just as fair to be alone.”

Scene 4  (A month has passed.  Man is at his computer typing.  Woman out of scene, but still can be heard.)

Man:  (Typing)  “I wonder now why I didn't just call this whole thing "This Is My Poetry."  I have grown to look at this and understand it as one little corner of the internet that is all mine, that no one goes to - one where I can be completely honest with myself.  I like that a lot.  I can be honest, and explore the writing I like, love, and even hate.  I feel like I want it to stay this way.”

Woman:  (Somber, serious tone unheard before)  So now you’re calling it your own?

Man:  Well, yeah, I mean, it only makes sense.  This thing has been around for over a year and it’s been me this whole time on it.

Woman:  Have you sent out any more of your poems?  You have even more now…

Man:  No, no I haven’t.

Woman:  I see you’re still taking classes.  Poetry classes, writing classes.  Have you changed your mind about them?

Man:  (Stirred)  Well, no, not really.  It’s a different place, but it still seems to be the same old class.  I still get the stunned silence when I write something.  The only difference is now I fucking love it.

Woman:  So you use your blog as a vent now?  Or did you just give up?

Man:  (Contemplative, pausing)  …I don’t know.  (Returns to typing)  “Sometimes I feel like my references are too simple, my poems too plain to be worth much more consideration than one reading.  However, I see too many poems today by too many intelligent people become too intelligent for their own good.  If there is a message you wish to convey, to a simple audience, the simplest way to do it is the best way.”

Woman:  What’s the “simplest way” to get your message across immediately, if you haven’t given up?

Man:  (Weary)  I don’t know.  I imagine it’s criticism or something like that, in a classroom.

Woman:  I imagine that’s something you should understand.

Man:  (Returning to Typing)  “Smart writers, I feel, get bogged down too consistently in trying to exhibit their own cleverness; their own abilities.  When this happens, the tone, mood, message, climax, structure - everything about the poem is in jeopardy.  That is, unless, they are writing for a different audience.  If this is the case, then they can be as fearlessly arrogant as they wish.”

Woman:  Are you a smart writer?

Man:  I can’t say I am.  (Returns to Typing)  But let's forget all that for now.  This place is for me.  I will treat it that way.  So now, I will put up another poem, simple in its construction, but still poetically justified.

His One Night
 

A boy was born this night

My boy

With freedom in his eyes

Near wrecked

Ripped from his mother

Mottled with blood

Ready to ascend

his crystal stair.

You remember that night well

The celestial ocean split apart

wave upon wave rushing aside

to open the universe

I left the ward

went outside

to call to them

for him

Bursts of light reached across the sky -

- Such lights!

The stars burned with reckless abandon -

- A chorus of lights!

I called to them

cried for him

they carried his name

to where it burns forever:

you remember it well -

remember that night well

for Inside I found my woman alive

where tears shatter peace –

where free eyes

never see again

You remember it well

remember that night well

the night the heavens carried his name

my boy’s name

to where it burns forever…

in the heavens

and the heavens alone.

(Man finishes typing.  Gets up, and leaves computer.)

Woman:  “Poetically justified”?  What the fuck does that mean?

Scene 5  (Several months have passed.  Man enters scene, walks by computer.  Stops, thinks for a second, smiles to himself, and sits down.  He begins to type.)

Man:  (Typing)  I can't believe this blog hasn't taken off yet!  It should be soaring through the prevailing winds of cyberspace at this point, invading people's creative minds and conquering their empty souls!...  Haha.  What did I imagine this thing was supposed to be again?  I've only told her that this exists, and I'm pretty sure she hasn't read this in a long time.  Partly because it hasn't been contributed to in forever; partly because she reads anything I've written well before it goes on here.

Well, she hasn't read any of this.

The Dream
Soul is known in the hole
the time it takes to travel
It's a crime to be inside my mind
Dreams do not unravel.

I thought myself a poet once
Arrogance, Ignorance bliss
I was so much cooler back then
When I knew what I'd do with this

But now the road ain't so clear
Traffic jacked up other minds
Some greater, some later discovered
Most are farther behind

The crux underneath my dilemma
Crutched weakly with wry foundation
Starry lenses stand on a glass fountain
Balance light of lilies and strangulation

Stay in stasis in statum oasis
Static and stoic, a stalwart complacence
Statuesque faces sleep in stone cases
What world I live within

An honest hope; mine is simple
enough.  And yet, so hard to believe
In screams filling still rooms to blank faces
Do they clap just to make me leave

If I write for simple, merely my soul
what affirmation do I need
from hollow eyes, empty faces
the heirs and heiresses of the crossroads

And the cheers, they may satisfy
if well wishes fuel the soul;
Boos, rejection are contemporaries
in the halls of the honored dead.

When I stand on stage
and I ask you a question
answer my question
don't applaud me for asking

Your cheer is the opposition 
to what I want the most.
Your lax is my arch rival
but keep the host

Right?  Love is not required
like I require in my life.
Who is the apportioner
of my wife?

Age has come, a coming of age
the age I've reached avails no coming
Fronting the stage, the stage is a front
for a coming of age aging ages in coming

Curtain closes on stage alone
Opportune fortune reaps the reeking
Blind to my backside the band keeps playing
Blasting, air brush, gain wreaking

Delay to the curtain displays an uncertain
relation made of tenuous plans
Lucky for we - we like to agree
we shadows held in shy hands

In high school I learned of vectors
rays, lines, line segments
At infinium is still conjecture
rays aren't always straight.

Rays of the Sun are never unified
yet not one complains of inefficiency.
We make music, diffuse, and grow mystified
why fans don't fawn at the food of the door.

I startle myself until my time comes
My mind will laps and dreams fall
from my blushing mind into my hand.
My greatest mistake was to suffer withdrawal.

Gold is a silly metaphor
in a state of lethal taste
this guy's too kind, he's a killer
with that skin-eating smile on his face

I would alter the deal of my dream
had I not run the others out
My mind is regressing so successfully
an inevitable basement of doubt

Counting heartbeats is not way to live
imagining my organs isn't either
Steeping in the dread of my squishy design
is causing a common fever

(Man gets up from computer, leaves scene.)