Holy Rolling

Because the snack bar serves fried
bologna & the cocktail lounge
pours pinot grigio from the can
& if Jeffrey “The Dude”
Lebowski lived in Ohio
this would be HIS PLACE.
Outside these doors they call
you Rosie or Bobby. Here
your name is Crusher. The
Hammer. BOOYAH! You
are part of a roster—a team
of Magic 8 Balls & Bowling
Babes, Gutter Guards &
That’s How We Roll. Your
name on your locker, your
lounge shirt, your lucky towel
reminding you that every
thing you need is in the body.
You’re a creeper; a crow
hopper. You are bellying
the ball. You are hitting
the beak. The ball that leaves
your hand is a Greek church,
a picket fence, a sour apple.
A six-pack. A sparrow.
A real honey.

Because it’s the oil
on the lane, the shine
on your ball, & you
can get your strike
via Jersey or Brooklyn.

Because luck matters.

Because there’s no such
thing as luck.

Because
you can’t count on luck.

Because every ball is a new
ball & there’s always the
next frame, & somewhere
on the horizon lies a perfect
game. A succession of pins
spitting & splitting
like that first bang that gave
rise to it all—balls &
jukebox records spinning
like planets. Your body
part of a constellation.
Every score or non-score
cause for fist bumps & high
fives: fourteen-billion-
year-old bursts of hydrogen
swapping midair with each
palm-to-palm exchange.

Because under the dome
of these fluorescent stars
is the religion you’ve been
searching for: Prince
& Zeppelin testifying
from the jukebox.
Sixteen lanes sponsored
by Shorty’s Pizza & Zeus
Auto Max moving
in concert. Hips. Shoulders.
Wrists. Bang—LIGHTNING!
as sixteen balls strike the pocket
in unison. Fingers reaching
to the heavens. One blinding
fleeting forever flash
as the sky catches fire
before we all fall back to earth.

Read more from Issue 22.1.