  i was happily sleeping until i realised how much energy my brain had for conceptualising what it would take to coach Hayton's kids in soccer.  i was imagining it as i started to slip into it,  but i got so charged up,  i felt like i should put it somewhere.  no,  my expertise has not been asked for.
 i just thought about it.  i'd be good if i could manage a finite amount of intense contact;  be like one of those celebrity hosts.  a quick fix coach that just gives the team and the usual facilitator a heads- up.  like,
 ask the kids where they get killed the most.  pretend this is the hardest position.  lie to them.  then use one of 100 reasons why the position is important an how interrelated it is on other positions.  deflect.  but acertain where the strong players are.
 put them in the back.  the rest up the middle.  a right mid and a right forward.  kids can't play with a left side unless they're good.  or unless they're so bad,  the other teams' right side is giving them a lashing.
 unless there's a gifted lefty on the team,  no matter his position now.  throw him on wing.  do dimension drills,  emphasising the use of space.  hit the corners and bring it back.
 teach the mids to charge the 18,  then sprint back,  the wing Ds to cover their players.  aggressive tactics,  but on a spotty kids' team you can do that.  if the kids and their inherent skill is trustworthy and you're communicating it properly.
 makes me wish i had kids.  but more than one,  'cause who wants to listen a bossy,  ex- player when your kid is only one on a team?  so i relistened and listened again tonight to Ginsberg's "
Howl.  twice so far,  and i think i'm due for one more with the lights off.  so powerful.  so dark.  i'm not a fan of 50s despair (
think it's trite,  actually)  but his poetry rings with such raw,  bleeding truth.  ok,  things that bleed don't ring save for a severed ear.
 but you get the point.  or,  you hear what i'm saying.  " listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox"  (
43- 4)  " who broke down in crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the wachinery of other skeletons"  ( 89-
90)  " who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully,  gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were were growing old and cried"  ( 155-
157)  " the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising &  the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors,  or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Abolute Reality"  (
160- 163)  and yes,  i emailed Hayton to tell her how fantastic i think her kids are.  giving them tangerines against mom's will ( Don't feed the Gremlins!
 she jokes,  yelling to the back of class)  it was the highlight of my day.  and it really was.  what killer kids.  i'm half asleep.
 i gave Vato a prissy girl- bed made of a heating pad.  since he didn't want to sit on it while i was coaxing him to it,  i feel like going over and turning the thing off on him.  but the point was to spoil the idiot,  even if he only has a cat brain with which to get it.
 i sent mom a copy of my poem.  think i'll be uninvited to thanksgiving dinner?
