July 12, Frank Talk Art Bistro & Bookstore, Frank reads poems both old and new including works from Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry and Disorderly Conduct, plus debuts new poems. Frank Talk Art Bistro & Bookstore, 163 Shrewsbury Ave, Red Bank, NJ. 2pm. Also reading will be poet/author Adele Kenny. Hosted by John Petrolino. Click here for more info

July 14, Louisville Slugger Museum & Factory, Frank gives the first ever poetry reading and booksigning in the famed venue's 125-year history! This happens on All-Star Game day in the Pee Wee Reese Gallery at Louisville Slugger Museum & Factory, 4:00PM, Free and open to the public! 800 West Main St. Louisville, KY 40202 1-877-7-SLUGGER (877-775-8443)

July 16, Mets Viewing Party at Foley's Pub, NYC, Join us at America's most famous baseball bar as Frank Messina signs copies of Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry from 6-7pm. Then, cheer on the Mets as they battle the Braves in Atlanta. Live on the flatscreens. Foley's Pub, 18 W. 33rd (bet 5th and 6th Aves) Directly across from the Empire State Building.

EIGHT LINES FOR INJURY

from Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry

He staggers to position,

kneecap pried, crowbar

He limps to first base bag,

ankle rolled, sprained

He shudders from batter's box,

up and in, bell rung

He collects, breathes, stands

returns and settles in

by Frank Messina

MEAT GRINDER
from Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry

I have found
the perfect companion
to watch Mets games with:

-a meat grinder-

At the start of each game
I place the grinder next to my chair
crack a beer, recline and let the fun begin

First I place my fingers
into the chute and dangle them
over the spinning blades

With each passing inning
fingers move deeper into the machine
until I feel the pressure of the blades
against my fingertips

At first, I ignore the pain
it's just a few lacerations, that's all
and besides, we're leading
by a score of "three-zip" in the eighth

but then a pitching change
and it's Aaron Heilman

I start to get a sick feeling

My fingers become lodged
beyond return, then my forearm

I lean forward in the chair
shaking left to right
hoping to free myself from the
stainless steel beast now dangling
from the side of my body

Heilman walks
leadoff man in four pitches
and I start sinking
deeper into the machine

I push back from the chair
lifting right leg over head
then down against the meat grinder
trying to force loose
but
my foot slips into the chute
then calf, knee and thigh

With one leg left, I furiously
kick at the meat grinder
yet it too becomes lodged and devoured

Now, head and torso
sticking out of the chute;
the other half of me being
pressed out of the grinder plates

-I begin to panic-

Then it happens:
Heilman gives up another walk
a base hit, then a home run

-another blown game-

Down I go,
forced through the bowels
of a meat grinder,
pressed through chute and blades,
and onto the floor
in a glorious, warm and bleeding
pile of fan bits

by Frank Messina

Don the Red Sox Fan

from Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry

Don lives upstairs
but today he's in the garden
with Samuel Adams and Khaki Jeans;
eyes pinned to the pages
of a James Burke mystery novel,
He's worked a long day
and even a Boston transplant
deserves peace and quiet once in a while

but it's 7 p.m.

and I'm pacing around, checking stats,
injury reports, analyzing every word of the pre-game
wondering what's up with our pitching staff
and someone please tell me
where is El Duque?
but
there's Don, feet propped up,
plate of fresh fruit, Rib eye slow-cooking on the grill
and all I can find
is some leftover Chinese food
broken bits of Xanax, maybe a Zoloft of two
fumbling through take-out menus
medical prescriptions and scorecards
getting ready for the game
and then
I look back out the window
at Don in the garden,
wondering how a self-proclaimed, die-hard Sox fan
can be so calm and collected

so I check the schedule
and notice the Sox are playing the Yankees
no wonder he's not worried
and
four hours later
his team has already won
but my team is tied at three in the twelfth!
storm clouds rolling in, winds kicking up
here comes the tarp

and it's 12 a.m.

My head is starting to hurt,
nails bitten off their nubs
empty Chinese food containers, prescription bottles
and there's Don in the garden
full bellied, fast asleep, moon shining upon his face
and just when I'd been tortured enough
a kid in his first major league at-bat
comes up with the go-ahead run at third
and plucks one into centerfield for
the game winning single
and I holler so loud
I wake Don in the garden
who collects his barbecue gear, empty bottles
and clangs his way down the hallway

I open the door and say, "Mets won!"
and there's Don,  ruddy-faced
rubbing eyes, checking a text message
and says, "ah look Sox won too, goodnight Frank"
makes his way up the stairs
while I shut the door, turn out the lights
and lay my weary bones down on the couch
to get some rest
because tomorrow is another day
yes, another day at the opera,
another day on the high anxiety,
Mets roller-coaster ride of suicidal delirium

Frank Messina

Freddy the Fair Weathered Fan

from Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry

At the game, Giants and Mets
San Fran up, one-nothing,
Freddy wears number twenty-five,

Bonds jersey

Freddy cheers, arms raised
big smile, proudly turns
pointing to shirt,

Bonds jersey

Home-run, Mets up three-to-one
Freddy's eyes swing left to right,
slowly unbuttons his

Bonds jersey

Mets clobber three more,
Freddy squirms, slinks out of the shirt
underneath it, a brand new

METS jersey

At the game, Giants and Mets
San Fran down, nine-to-one,
Freddy the fair-weathered fan
stuffs something under his chair:
 
Bonds jersey!

Frank Messina

The Art of Restraint and Cool Excuses

from Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry

She was intrigued
or perhaps just drunk
but she mustered enough courage
to ask me out to lunch, a show, music
I appreciated her opinions and admired the way
she carried herself,
so I popped the big question on her:
"Mets-Braves, gorgeous summer night, you know?"

"Not tonight," she said

"But, you can come upstairs with me," she said
with a Mona Lisa smile

Part of me wanted to go up there with her

I thought for a moment, then said,
"No, not tonight, I'm headed to the game,
Mets-Braves, gorgeous summer night, you know?"

She gently shook her head, turned,
then disappeared into the apartment building

Later, when I got to the stadium
I studied the empty seat beside me,
placed a napkin in the center, then my beer,
Then I shifted my eyes toward the part of me
that wanted to go upstairs with her
and said, "Not tonight, pal. Not tonight."

Frank Messina

While the team may have banned tabloids in the Mets clubhouse, this picture clearly shows my book is now top of the pile. Well, at least until the tabloids get piled back on top of it. (((Aw shucks))). 

Philly Lou
from Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry

Lou's my bartender,
local tavern, personalized mug
beer's cold, patrons warm

One problem, Lou's a Philly fan
red hats, red buttons, red P's
hidden between bottles, wine glasses,
a staged battle of superstition and luck

One day, stopped in,
rearranged Lou's gadgets,
switched the hats around
and wished his team bad habits

It hasn't worked...yet

Frank Messina

House of Horrors

from Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry

I went to the House of Horrors

brought battle gear, Mets cap and jersey

expecting torment and ill-will toward my team,

instead, the Braves crowd treated us with

dignity, respect, gracious southern charm,

and better yet, we swept them

with the help of Pedro's arm

Frank Messina

Now..........who steps to the plate but FRANK MESSINA, who specializes in poetry, even when he delivered his speech at Barnes & Noble.  His book "Full Count", is a masterpiece in rhythm.  This new writer became a Mets fan even before the team ran out to the field for the first time.  He tracks some of his boyhood as a nutty Met, and describes everything dramatically and comically.  

Messina

He writes: "I'm a second-class citizen

Trapped in a first-rate city

Son of a Brooklyn-Dodging-Giant,

Laid to rest in the back-alleys of Muttsville.

I'm a Mets fan!"

One of Frank's best poems was his first, entitled "It was I, Mrs. Wiley". You laugh and cry as you read it.  I'm not going to tell you about Mrs. Wiley or his other bits of masterful work. Just stop what you're doing and buy the book.  Sports Illustrated said, "He's the Poet Laureate of the Mets." You thought going to the ball game was all you've got to do?  Find out, by reading, and add to the magnificence of Baseball.

by Eddie Resner