i fucking hate bowling

(With many thanks to Ms.  Daphne G., for writing Pelt.)

daphne, i live in a frat house,
without frat boys,
they're watching women's bowling, daphne,
no rufies, no rape, no hitting, daphne,
i'm proud of these boys, even if
they sometimes watch bowling
while i read your book and
listen,
         (daphne)
i love to say (daphne) your name, daphne,
it gives me some (daphne)thing to say
that doesn't feel ugly or (daphne)awkward
you've got a graceful name    (daphne)      
but anyway, the bowling.
(daphne.)

the bowlers are holy rolling the first stones,
except for the dykes, daphne,
the announcers never mention the dykes,
the cameras never pan across their families,
they're rolling
alone.
i ask why and the boys, they say,
"it's alright, it's bowling.  Besides,
that's what it costs to drink and play
with their balls, (ha-ha) too."
it's alright, it's bowling:

human sexuality is a belly laugh
in a slaughter house.
how many uncomfortable queers can tap dance
on the head of a match
with strike-only-on-box bowling shoes,
in an alley?
It's alright, daphne,
it's bowling, but are they scared in the parking lot, daphne?  
daphne, it's bowling, alright, but
is it alright,  It's right there, daphne, no one
says anything, they look so quiet.
daphne:

i stole your book from a girl (friend)
and (at page 55) i am still unsure
whether i'll ever give it back, even
if it's not my name on the inside of the front cover
scrawled quickly promise of light and
a thank you that doesn't look half hearted
i like thinking about her when
i read your book.  she was also a little queer, daphne,
she was a little quick to say that didn't mean we
could have a threesome
and I was a little quick to laugh,
because three abed is too many
holes and parts and that scenario wears a
t-shirt that reads, "logistical nightmare."
i think of this when i read your (her) book and it's a fond memory.
i feel that the natural sentimentality
of the here to go mindset
is often overlooked, daphne.
daphne, it's alright,
it's bowling.
here:
 
how many pins can dance
at the end of an alley?  
it depends which stones you throw.
it seems to be someone's
head, daphne, there should be
eyes and a mouth on that ball
and the heads roll toward ribbonesarmbones
thighs, heads clutched at the mouth,
sweating bloody fingers, noses crushed into palms
spinning grins, open lids, the sound a jaw makes
when it hits the ground and clicks teeth shut
across a tongue that won't ever say anything
again, daphne, they say it's alright,
it's bowling.
it's.
daphne.
alright.
it's bowling, it's all there:
the bloody stripes on white skin
we have cut our own throats
sawed off our own heads
and thrown them at the bones.
our faces, daphne, blank above our
wounds, daphne, tell me it's,
daphne, alright, tell me, tell, alright
daphne, it's alright
daphne, it's bowling.