Knicks @ Spurs, NBA FINALS Game 5

rapturous endings, 

eruptions into history

or maybe, into a friend who changed decades

but not numbers, who receives my text

from out of yet another kind of blue,

responding       Yo just fucking call me, Miles!    or, maybe

into my brother hollering through our looking glass,

68 rippling inches of rioting technicolor diodes,

EVERYBODY BETTER                                 THAN JALEN BRUNSON,

‘TIL IT’S TIME TO BE BETTER                   THAN JALEN BRUNSON,

as Spalding’s sphere gets spun at a slope

possibility does not yet govern   or!

or! Kevin Garnett combusting!

into anything possible, erupting into who

we make ourselves possibles for, for whom

we’d gladly renig one mo ‘gain and again ‘fore we’d ever consider reneging, or

into last Friday, when I last bought four

grams from a man who waits until my cash is out 

to reconstitute our intersection

in place,

“Aye bruh—ain’t your muvahs used to

teach me?” our

elementary context    or, the center

fielder giving himself up to warning

track before wall and trajectory

of beaten cork and cowhide, and

I scream for him—LOOK!—to behold

himself on jumbotron, our cruder

delorean, time being what it can be

contained within   or even, beloved,

that I simply seent a something I believed

reserved only for quiet knowing

  the plain thought I would die before

I saw the right people start winning,

as in: hellooo niggas! Look what electing

socialism buys you!: a superstar who shares the fame

the rock the cash the hesi the pull the float but never

the blame   or, that on this night I will not blame anyone

who dials a phone they know should never ring, for taking

shots they know only ever to sting, for tonight

will not chide the yearners nor the delusional, tonight the space 

cadets are multitudinal; lecture the astrophysicists   tonight’s blue

moon is sliced orange one time and so this eve will refuse shaming 

the outside|the|line colorers and/or colorees   because tonight

we yielded to the void and danced with future ex-strangers,

and forgave even our goofiest from hi-fiving 5-O:

: because what is the point of being alive if we cannot deny,

even if for a moment, the alienation of a construct?

because, I called your phone and you answered,

and you said I need to show you how the city is alive

and you pan our time-space dilation contraption

to your friends, your wife, and you tell me

you’ve thought of me, talked of me, in a place outside

my own doing, brought me elsewhere, unbeknownst 

to me. Because friends, New York’s Knickerbockers 

just won the NBA championship, and… who, really,

can say what    or, when       makes a miracle?