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The fans treated me royally.

quote by Hank Sauer
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I lost the ball in the moon.

quote by Hank Sauer
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But when I go to Chicago, I know I'm home.

quote by Hank Sauer
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The first week Banks was with us, we knew he was going to be a star.

quote by Hank Sauer
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I don't know how it started but someone must have noticed I was always chewing tobacco or smoking a pipe.

quote by Hank Sauer
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The direction of a man's thought is always the decisive factor in his personality. His whole outer life will be determined by the inward inclination of his mind.

quote by Erich Sauer
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After I'd hit a home run and took my position in the field, the fans in the bleachers began throwing packages of tobacco at me. I stuffed them in my pocket.

quote by Hank Sauer
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Clio's Sieve

How fine the mesh of Clio's sieve!
How deft; sifting teeming epoch
To one parchment, in it to live
Distilled, a lost world in one book.
An epic lives in one last line
Of plucked hexameter, to stand
For seven thousand not so fine.
The remnant Library fills one hand,
One scroll immortal of millions
Dust and ash. Or is it Eris,
Random goddess, her selections
That we pore over and caress?
Our faith is, we've the gold, not dross;
We could not else bear feel the loss.

poem by Mark Sauer
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The Diadochi

When word was brought that Alexander was dead
In Babylon, gossips said it was not true;
For if that demigod spirit had shed
So vast a corpse, its corruption then through
The whole world would reek; men from Carthage
To India would pause and sniff the air,
That by the stench declared the End of Age
Like an incense-wafted funeral prayer.
Yet he was dead, and in time earth did stink
With the metal tang of blood. Forty years
His funeral games were held, and men did think
His dying crueler than his life. More tears
And blood they shed, his diadem to strive,
Than he had spilled in Asia, when alive.

poem by Mark Sauer
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The Inheritors

When the Last Man dies, and those drifted ones
Born just beyond the closing threshold, changed,
Gather at his obsequies, mutant sons
And daughters with new souls, new eyes, and strange
Tongues, what songs will they sing in elegy?
Will it be music in scales we might ken,
Or shall they have transcended melody
To some new communion, these aftermen?
Shall the changelings even note our passing?
Did we mourn the last Neanderthal, or
Were we heedless in our proud surpassing
As we erased our soul's progenitor?
When new eyes wake, heirs to a holocaust,
Can the fresh, raw world know what has been lost?

poem by Mark Sauer
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