knute rockne shrieks at halftime
throttles a leprechaun
grabs a priest by the nuts
screams “where in god’s name is the fight in the fucking fighting irish?”
words bunched up and choked
in blood spittle fury
knute rockne squeezes the family-less jewels of father o’brian with a deathless grip
purdue is leading by 7 and there is hell to pay

the padre’s eyes roll
he utters a desperate incantation
summons demons from the dark ages
the dark pages of revelations
coach Rockne and God
dishing out righteous pain
for the good of everything that’s good

good like south bend Indiana
the very good pigskin grip texture of pigskin throwing crisp eminently catch-able passes
lit up in pure October sun rays
corn high up to the belly of the lord
good as good honest frontal marital sex
and you are the one for real gipper

suddenly all the people in the stands
rise up on silver wings
leaving their beers and pompoms behind
it’s quite unusual !
notre dame field is suddenly
empty as the day it was built
two of the four horsemen
of the apocalypse
appear on the 50 yard line
they sorta gallop boldly
‘cross the irish green trampoline field south bend, county Claire
they take pictures and disappear

along with purdue

knute stares mute from the sideline
releases the nuts of the priest
who promptly kicks the extra point
into empty bleachers
the two horsemen of the apocalypse
catch a cab
leaving victory and transcendent images
in their wake

postcript:
the third horseman took the picture
the fouth horseman is having oral surgery
and the apocalypse ?
it was half as exciting as
two horsemen leaping over the cameraman

by the horse poets on the other side of the goal line