 Number three for Barry. Way out in space. Out so far that if a man went that far and came back to talk about it, he'd be younger than his grandchildren. That far out in space, a red giant implodes. Slow gray clouds rumble in gale warning wind over the lens of Palomar. But when the game isn't televised, there's always the radio play-by-play and a perchance. We fall asleep listening to the twink and sparkle. We can catch highlights during breakfast in the daily computer readout, complete with box score. Occurrent standings, such as the thoroughness of scientific tech. What are you doing, asked Billy Ralph? Wamba does the funky chicken in the street, the famous James Brown version with obvious adjustments for Wamba's physical structure. What planet were you born on, says Wamba? I'm trying to get to the other side. She said, he said, trying his lying, says Billy Ralph, reflecting. In a championship softball game, bases were loaded. One away, two runs behind, last inning, I was up. That had cleaned up all year. Strong wind blew from the left, the pitch was inside, I tried to go to right, and popped to the second basement. Shock, picture of myself as hero. I didn't know I had it, cracked. My cover was blown, nude and more embarrassed than anything. The steam replayed in my head for years. If only I, if only I. A red giant becomes a white dwarf The transition is nebulous. Wamba dances, here's the time changes in the situation. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, six, nine. Punchline turns into personal confession. Confessor is locked in a different time. He has made a choice, gone to the movies. Plays his admission, pays his admission, sits down, enters the time stream and rides. Outside the theater, a riot goes on. He is involved in the movie, Conscious of Little Else. He zooms, he pans, he cuts to. Here's the exaggerated click, shoot a floor. Movie becomes a lens to focus, changing scenes outside he can leave at any time. Way out in space, we reach into a hive of swarming nebula searching for sweet honey. Radio telescope via satellite zooms data down to earth for interpretation. One scientist substantiates his theory. Another with a new theory is excited. It's in the stars, both will become controversial figures. There could be no science, there could be no politics in science. A scientist must maintain objectivity. That's what it gets paid for. Wamba dances, feeds Confessor. A new question, is light a particle or wave? Billy Ralph strikes a match, scratch of frictions, become suck of combustion, hot glows, yellow flame, sulfur scent appears, appearance is always the same. Drip on a stick, matches. Billy's face lights up. Once darkened portions of his features have definition, street lights go on, his vision is even clearer. What is truths? Ask Billy Ralph. My flesh is completely new every seven years, but the waves I feel change all the time. When I was in Little League, the Argus boxcored our games right next to the big leagues. I always compared my stats with the pros. Here I made all stars, my batting average was higher than May's or Aaron, but I don't think I made top 10 in our league. Still my dream sword. Years later, a friend asked to go to a Giants game, seemed so slow, an old familiar face. The years I played the game, been swayed by the game. We had almost nothing in common. These pros were so much better. The roster said they were younger than me. I felt embarrassed. A friendship had faded. I had missed its passing. Sometimes I think it's only my name that holds me together. Thank you. Thank you.