STEVE ADAM


The sub-frozen tundra cast its repressed severity
radiantly over its Lambeau Field memoirs, chiming
breathless dreams from the abyss of the assembled
molecules, busy rustling heavily gloved hands together, their
faces masked surreptitiously beneath knitted hooded helmets: Beards, ears,
eyes, mouths, nasal drips, noses, salivate lips, stitched coaxingly together,
cleave inseparably to skins made to stick fast; icicle particles proliferate:

Plaxico Burress in pirouette precision; team mate, Manning,
strutting the pas de dieu, seethes at opposing phenom, Brett Favre, fleshing
gritted resolves, spanking ferociously Al Harris’s styrofoam
challenges, determined concertedly to freeze these giants in their sisyphesian
goal, with a packer’s adieu:

Daddy Adam swivels olives impaled on sticks, among home town heroes,
Abe, Aaron, Dave, Esau, Jake, Josh, Noah; chips, chugs, mugs,
nuts with locust licorice, etc., enjoy an event’s festal foray, warming
frozen fans; invading nomads convening for a
faux pas, cheering the homeboy giant challengers:
Daddy Adam teases martinis! Wasted Packers tackle attackers, the
bottom of Adam’s aperitif, their icy field

Alpha honeys, beta wives, escorts, girlfriends, mamas, sweethearts; accomp-
lices; gallivanting gals; portraits painted on an Hieronymos Bosch’s like
“Garden of Delights” canvas, abet Mother Eve; her self-claimed ‘hostess
cup-cake’ sweetness, the ‘apple’ of Daddy Adam’s adoration;
himself, haughtily engaged with peers under the shade of an overheated
conduit down in the bleachers section of the Green Bay field….,

“Here, Daddy! Munch on a talon; tamed for you!
Makes this freeze for all warm you: Having a good time pops?”
“Ta, Ma! Hey guys! Listen up!” Daddy Adam shouts his boisterous hoody
boys, imbibing transcontinental six pacs of native Cana Manishewitz, Eden Lager,
Ewe 666 Ale, Galilean Comforts, Gommaroh Stout, Porkslap Pale Ale, Prophet
Daniels:

You name it; spirits fizzing freely, melts one’s jugular.

Interrupting again, Daddy Adam shouts, “Hey guys listen up; hush for a few!”
“When your kids and their kids learn history; what we do for fun; how our
boy, Steve Adam, for one, exhales; how we strut
the wild side; chilling; here’s how he, his mates, Ishmael, Isaac, Joseph,
for instance, tell it…


Mama, where’s our boy, anyway? Stevie, where are you kiddo?”

“Yow daddy, don’t really know; Steve’s
maybe down in the pit somewhere!

Steve honey! Helloooo Steve! Steeeevey! Where did that boy disappear to?”
Mother Eve, exasperated & tired in her state, shrugs her droopy shoulders,
indifferently:

Meanwhile, down in the dugout, buried below the frigid bowels of the stadium’s
subterrenean conundrum, ammonia, body sweat, urea; odors, smells, bulging
muscular biceps, stalwart spandex veined triceps, filter erogenous steam oozing from
armpits, crotches, foreheads, mouths, nostrils, pores:

Steve Adam is elementary here;
smiles astygmatize his blue, green, (this is termed ‘hazel’, I think) eyes, revolving in
their orbits, contrite from basting in pureed spirituals; eponymous potentates in an
imaginary carnage dedicated to another’s elimination.

“Honey, he’s your son alright! Just like papa! Sure don’t take after his mother, that’s
for sure! You know what they say Father ‘bout them silent ones’; what they say again? Oh, yeah, ‘runs deep’; should’ve a girl like me this round!”

“For your sake ma, (hiccup), hope so!” Daddy Adam’s Porkslap breath belches, en-
couragingly.
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