In summer the game goes on somewhere
Where there's a court or there isn't
Someone somewhere in the dark
Hurls it at the hoop in or out

Glass and scraps of paper
A moment where the ball floats unseen
Like a bat
In the basket
Basketball on pavement

But it's no dream
a sketch of the future
Two shots

Pounding
One step ahead of the end of summer
The end of that dream.

I really hate movies about voodoo. There's one going on now, and, like all the others, it makes no sense.

Of course, you could make it interesting, if you concentrated on the fairly unexotic idea that people can be influenced by others. A person can, at the behest of another, become a wholly different sort of person, even a terribly harmful, self-sabotaging person. But you need to leave out all this blood and ouija boards.

This movie has a pair of demented women in it, playing around with bowls of blood and incense, also the standard middle-aged kindly expert on the dangers of mumbo-jumbo, who's breathlessly going around trying to help. He takes it very seriously, has a briefcase with records of similar nonsense, since he'e a scholar, and he seems to be finding and reading books and newspaper clippings that are significant. He goes to the public library and spends the day studying and researching. He finds out that someone died in that very house, or something. That means—

Why doesn't he get a regular job? Stop encouraging people to mess about with voodoo.

Labels: Poems, Zombies