Amerikan balls & friends by Tim Loveday
Amerikan balls
My father talks to me
about the cars.
The great tragedy of his life. The
things that kept him back. The cars he didn’t own.
Is yet to own.
He’s a deadman, hungermoney.
He’s talking like I get these cars.
Like I know the names. The brands. The models.
Like the engines are notches in a belt
that’s spread bald eagle across my arse.
He calls these cars my inheritance.
It’s all he wants to talk about.
S
I ask him:
do you remember playing catch?
Frigid heat.
A tangle of clouds.
Our fists feeding leather beaks. A baseball sails through the air. Moribund eclipse.
Downward arching ecstasy. A stolen whoosh. A planet forms inside my fist.
The sound of one hand clapping?
It isn’t calm. Hardly. It’s leather whack.
Cold shrill and home.
I heard Amerika is aching.
S
I had this idea about Amerika. I suppose.
Of fathers. Of the people
this is becoming.
A penchant for Christmas films. Air Bud.
Animals up to extraordinary things.
Spirits teaching elaborate lessons.
Small children squat on fathers' knees.
Whole houses boobytraps.
S
One Christmas he bought me that baseball glove. The wrapping was shot, an ugly mess.
Resembled, in ways, a giant clam. He’d never wrapped a thing before. I’d guess. Now, this
papery bivalve mollusk tattooed with tiny, smiling Santas.
My hands were cautious, of course.
His smile, a crack outside the park.
I thought he wished to kill me.
Give a man a clam.
All the shellfish are against me.
S
Christmas was my father at the head of the table. A knuckle of crackling. An egg-like cup of
ginger beer. Gravy-spots quiver on leather lips.
Points of fork at point of head.
“You can marry anyone son,
just as long as she is rich.”
S
My father, Henry Ford.
S
We never had prawns.
UnAustralian.
My body’s natural radicalism.
In that 40+ heat with roasting pork.
Outside it could be snowing.
S
It’s the only time he got talking. Of anything other than cars.
Good food has a certain economy.
So too does my mother.
S
Beside the tree I held that glove. Felt it flutter like a stagnant heart. My eyes clenched
black with dreaming.
Look, these vices our hands become.
Thumb prints miss cartilage.
Even my mother was surprised.
How did he get it?
Amerika, you distant, familiar land.
S
That Christmas was unique.
He’d never bought a thing. Except the Telegraph.
Made a joke of the fact.
Not one foot in a grocery store. Coming on two decades now.
Shopping centres? Pffttt!
Women’s work. Easy shit.
He made the dough.
Let’s swing it.
S
One week
My mother was away.
Sick. Said holiday.
Or verging on divorce.
The frozen meals
That she had left. Reminders of her absence,
Thawed. Their plastic
Shells, car yard in sink.
S
He calls me up,
Says son, I need to shop. What do I do?
Smirked. Said. Pfftt! That’s easy shit.
S
Not so much.
I found him twenty minutes in.
He couldn’t locate the chocolate.
S
As a kid they called me Little Wiener.
I wasn’t the smallest, the weakest. On my street. I knew my way through the bush. My
billykart was boss. Most everybody liked me.
But there was a paunch
above my cock. Some remarked. Clandestine turtle.
I wonder to this day, how they knew.
It seemed somehow instinctual.
S
My dad and nicknames
Gelled. He thought that one a keeper.
So with my spoon of shaving cream.
I catch hairs barely forming. His golden moustache twitching
Untouched.
Just like a sun-blessed prawn.
“My Little Wiener, huh?”
S
I heard Amerika is choking.
S
I always wanted antennae.
My body to be different.
Underwater.
I was never convinced
that it was things.
I liked toy cars in model kits. I wanted my hands to work better.
S
With my baseball glove
I am a satellite. My father in the outfield.
Bare-fisted. Shit eater's grin.
Open fist. Cup prawn-red sun.
Shaving open sky.
“Don’t you want
to die with something, son?”
Hollywood
in the making.
S
I wanted antennae because I was a spy.
My mother and me, we talked in subversive whispers.
Our language was all hushed tones. Conversations blunt dead at footsteps.
Secret words in other rooms. Murmurs and looks in passing.
To this day I hear her thinking.
Dumb dumb dumb.
It goes.
It sings like Christmas carols.
S
I learnt this language at Christmas time.
When money was tight.
When cars were boxes
Choked at feet.
When eyes were far
from baseball diamonds.
When I should have been dead, Australia.
S
I was ten
years old
and dying.
S
The kids in Christmas films were small. They disappeared
behind tables.
They ate pork just the same me.
I never saw them doing dishes.
Their bodies made for whispers.
My body made for thunder farts.
Shellfish was never mentioned.
S
If I’d had that antennae
I could have picked up sports' signals. Told my father who was winning
in games he couldn’t watch.
We would have sat together. Friday night footy.
Teams I didn’t like. Couldn’t love.
Men who called
my type piss-weak.
I’d fumbled balls too often.
S
Last year I bought a woman home.
No mention of my wiener.
My father laughed,
Said
Son, a prawn?
I knew then, America is dying.
S
He’s telling me again.
It’s Ford Mustang. GT. Cobra.
I’m sorry. It gets me.
I pretend not to remember.
Each name it sticks,
Like balls in fists.
Like sticky tape
on wrapping paper.
Like a windpipe closing up.
S
In bed we spoon
like Christmas carols.
Hot chocolate hearts.
And giant cocks.
I dream that I am happy then.
America, please stop bleeding.
S
My father watches TV.
They’ve just elected Trump.
America, is it paternal?
Do they have clinics for this?
Is this something we can fix?
I’ve considered drastic action.
I’ve considered nuclear obliteration.
I’ve considered changing channels.
S
In the summer
we walk along the beach
our bodies are not vehicles
collecting shells.
I tell you that
Honestly
I cannot see myself
with one person forever.
Foam, shaving cream,
A bay wide like frothing lips
the stink of seafood spent
In the baseball
engine of the sun.
It’s hit you harder than a car.
You want to roar like V8s.
They are not diamonds
In the rough.
Not allergies or turtle tears.
But liquid fists.
The water opens up
like a bird of freedom
taken flight
America, stop dreaming!
This is your inheritance.
friends
my memory is not a good friend.
sometimes it leads me out
into the forest, where the wet
earth roots around my feet,
hums, buggers hymns—
forgets about me. blames
a stranger. asks if i have
any change. remembers
the laundry, all covered in
dirt. lies to girls. has me
standing on the sidewalk
crying, thinking this is the
first time. wets my bed.
blames the universe.
always says, we’re friends.
wants to catch a bus somewhere.
the wet earth in my ears.
my eyes, full of worms.
my mouth the forest
ruthless with fog, spilling
daffodils, asking
who am i?
Editors Note: the S which break stanzas in Amerikan balls were originally written with a strike through, unfortunately we can’t replicate this with our text editor.
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