Writing
Eventually, probably.
Writing
The Pugilist
I am always afraid of dying.
My job is to stare down the babyface before me
so that he will understand who carves his future.
My job is to bring the young man hope
because there is nothing like an audience cheering to to tear that naive cunt down.
Bleeding, sweaty, bruised-
these are the adjectives used to describe a successful failure.
When my head hits the mat for the third time
and I am too dizzy to get up
I imagine what my mother would say.
If I still spoke to her.
If I had ever spoken to her.
If For Some Godforsaken Reason You Recognize This Poem You Are Legally Obligated To Block Me And Not Say Shit To Me
The heart is a fist.
Actually, the heart is a muscular organ used to pump blood throughout the body, working without conscious input from the organism it resides within.
But in this one, the heart is a fist.
What's literally happening isn't ever actually happening.
The mind is paper armor
and the brain is a series of nerves, fat, and water that serves as the central nervous system for most animals.
Armor protects us from what we cannot allow inside our bodies;
our brain protects us from the windows to the soul.
They who clutch their work with their fingers
wish they’d at least protected their hands.
They who don armor like gowns
shiver, for paper has no warmth.
Blind men and elephants
discover they have a lot in common.
Surgeons and their sons
discover they are in no man’s land more often than not.
The fist clutches a knife
and slides it between the true and false ribs.
The mind clutches a scalpel
and slides it between the frontal lobe and cerebral cortex.
What is the difference between surgery and war?
What is the difference between a poem and a conversation?