Sunday, September 30, 2007


I saw the best genoa trimmers of my generation destroyed by
a madness, fit, calm, clothed in the latest technical fabrics,
dragging themselves through the Spanish streets at
dawn looking for a friendly fix of the record book,
angelheaded athletes burning for the ancient
heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the
machinery of Harken,
who prosperous and bright-eyed and high on life
sat up breathing the supernatural air
of Alinghi hospitality suites,
floating across the rooftops of Port America's Cup
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to heaven under the windslot
and saw Bernoullian angels dancing on telltales illuminated,
who passed through
Cup campaigns
Cup campaigns
Cup campaigns
with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating endless achievement and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of the war-torn America's Cup scene . . .

Next verse:
The US Olympic Trials and Paralympic Trials opening Wednesday.

Peace, love, and high-tech fibers—Kimball