Poem with Lines Exclusively by Ken Rosenthal

Rosenthal
Ken Rosenthal has something to say.

Like most men who wear bow-style ties without irony, very spry baseball reporter Ken Rosenthal is not immune to the charms of the beaux arts. As the following poem suggests — composed entirely of lines from his recent dispatch from the front lines of the baseball news cycle — Rosenthal is capable of writing poignant lyrics on the nature of hope even when he appears to be writing just about a hypothetical Cardinals trade for Rockies shortstop Troy Tulowitzki.

Poem with Lines Exclusively by Ken Rosenthal

In case you missed it, I wrote earlier
that the smartest thing in the world to do
is grow more reasonable by the day.

OK, but there is another side.
What we hear privately
versus what is said publicly
can be two different things.

Here is my suggestion:
create additional flexibility,
add additional talent,
embark upon mission impossible.

The longshot might indeed
be a superior option.
The fun is only beginning.
You heard it here first.




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Carson Cistulli has recently started a new project called Paris Matches.

4 Responses to “Poem with Lines Exclusively by Ken Rosenthal”

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  1. Big Jgke says:

    Like most men
    immune to the charms of the beaux arts,
    the following poem suggests.

    Ken Rosenthal, his recent dispatch,
    poignant lyrics on the nature of hope
    just about a hypothetical.

    Vote -1 Vote +1

  2. Trillage says:

    Rosenthal is capable
    of baseball bow-style;
    Tulowitzi appears immune
    to the nature of hope.

    Writing poignant dispatch,
    he just suggests hypothetical news.

    Vote -1 Vote +1

  3. Michael says:

    This made me laugh until I realized that this was better than the poem I’m turning in Friday for my creative writing class.

    Vote -1 Vote +1

  4. A eskpert says:

    Should I ever meet him in person, presumably I would make Cistulli feel physically inadequate, notwithstanding the rippling sinews that adorn his substantial frame, but almost anything he promulgates, on me, the unwitting inhabitant of this-here internets, makes me feel insubstantial – like a black fly on a pile of shit.

    Vote -1 Vote +1

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