For the Love of Punching:

Camphor and Other Stories

By @raggedclown

2014

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ISBN: 978-0-9937240-3-9

Contents

For the Love of Punching

Camphor

Singing Sweet Science

The Kids Are Fighting Again

Dance and Fight

Ready

Iron Sharpens Iron Mike

Twelve Rounds

A Puncher's Chance

Stillness

The Referee

Seven, Seven, Cherry

Kick Your Friends

Fight Night

This Circus

Soft Like Cotton

Prizefighting in Heaven

Lazyweight

Options

A Boxer's Doxology

For the Love of Punching

I am in love

I profess it through my punching

I can reach the heights of ecstasy when I let my body peak after straining it so hard

And practising until I bleed and all the muscles in my body throb,

Taking my spirit to heights unknown to other men

Where I can be champion

Or where I can be greater in defeat than you mortals in your own shallow victories.

You know I am right.

You know you live more in the moments you steal from me than in the ones you make for yourself.

Your own moments shame you, so you shout my name.

You close your eyes as if it would help.

You bear my image if you would dare.

You share my victory because you will never taste it for yourself.

But what I taste is so much more pungent, so much sweeter, so bitter,

acrid, and so salty as to make even me vomit.

They question you.

They question your love and your devotion.

They mock your loyalty to the art of punching in a way that nearly separates you from it.

They can't see your heart because their hearts are not cut from this bolt of cloth.

Not like us.

They don't know that I drink your blood in order to rise to my occasion,

Which in turn, is your occasion as you see me spill my blood for you.

Camphor

Prologue: On Elijah

That smell you find in hospitals

And boxing gyms of old,

And farmhouses where men clean stalls

Then rub their flesh with oils.

The camphor smell, tells one and all

Though work's not yet complete,

It's been well wrought by wherewithal

That kept us on our feet.

But yet to one whose view is low,

The camphor smell says this:

You suffer now and evermore

You'll be devoid of bliss.

This tale today is not of woe

Or pain that yet persists.

This tale is of the way we know

Wherein our will resists.

Elijah was a man who dared

And kept his eyes engaged

Elijah's heart became ensnared

Until he was enslaved.

Prologue: On Ernie

Another man would heed elsewise,

Would hear the voice that calls.

A man of Earth, to seasons tuned

To count a thousand falls.

Our time began in ancestry

And here we carry on

Our essence is unbroken line

Our hearth we rest upon.

That farmhouse smell, that house of Earth

Brought people forth who knew

The struggle that persists within

Just as the greatest do.

This Ernie was a man who worked

And not a man who dared

But beckoned forth by providence

Rose while the dull world stared.

I: The Ballad of Ernie Dueck

What causes it one might not know

But pause is pause, not fear.

Just look, this unfamiliar place,

No understanding here.

From boundless acres, miles of free

From open sky to this

"The country mouse's eyes are big,"

Breathes City through chapped lips.

And Ernie knew no love for her,

"The city mocks the land.

She's full of people rude and fast

Who don't quite understand."

He feels the crowd's mood visceral

Don't people have a home?

So many people pressing me,

Nowhere to be alone.

The people mill about, it seems

As if their will is sapped

Are they each individuals

Or are they just one trapped.

If I've felt stress, it's been relieved

By open air and work.

This stress you have, this city stuff

Urban disease just smirks.

Just look. Sit mesmerized and see.

Wait while confusion melts.

It's soft but too shrill to dissolve

Just wait. To catch yourself.

Three dollar coffee with a stranger.

While buses come and go,

To destinations, from unknown.

While Ernie's forehead copes.

A walk outside on concrete earth

The sidewalk's made of earth but yet...

Yet manufactured into fake

Like steel before it's set.

In Ernie's work-day diet strict

A man like him lives raw.

It's head-on stuff, and no arounds

In work, obey the law.

Still swimming in the thoughts of things

That called to come to him,

A meadow came and met his path

Inviting him within.

Bewilderdly, he walked within

And counted acres ten

Not quite enough for crops of much

But plenty for a pen.

This land was sculpted to impress

For one who does not know

The land for real where hawks come from

And fly back at dusk's glow.

As if one could a version make,

A miniature world,

Or model of the universe

Without its top lip curled.

With looking left and looking right

While walking through the park

Two children ran unsupervised

Adventure and a lark.

The boy must be no more than five,

Flanked by a girl but nine.

The two ran past as Ernie thought

Their supervision blind.

Those kids must live nearby, I think

What calls them, are they well?

Or do they have a home at all

He had no way to tell.

Some people on the grass relaxed

From what he could not say.

They might be on vacation but

No work was there today.

They could be here for reasons grand

These people standing by

But Ernie couldn't tell just what

He only wondered why.

As Ernie kept on pressing on

He passed a music cat

Who played a flute, collecting coins

Within a turned up hat.

As Ernie trod the path made up

Of gravel where he stalked

He passed two men on his right hand

Not far from where he walked.

Two men beneath a statue's gaze

That overshadowed them

A semblance of a beast or bird

And also of a whim.

One man stood out, appearance keen,

As if not to belong.

The other man was dressed in fear

And images as strong.

Their voices rose in tempest form

Like cracking whips on air.

It made him shy away from them

To watch them war, and stare.

Assailing on the well dressed man,

Companion became foe.

Though Ernie didn't see the hit

One man did fall down low.

While this attacker hotly pressed,

Relentless blows, he pressed.

He then kicked to the fallen's ribs,

A great heave of the chest.

It seemed it was impossible

To count the seconds used.

The reason for this man's assault

Left Ernie still confused.

While Ernie's mouth hung dumb agape

While forming words to say

He thought "Excuse me sirs," but yet

Their gaze turned not his way

His words came stumbled and they stuck

While wanting to lend aid

Such wanton violence was gripped

As if the fear would fade.

As Ernie looked long at these men

They mingled, buzzed like flies.

And as he tried to speak to them

They grew from two to five.

One fiercely cursed the fallen one

Who lay still on the ground,

His body, curled recoiled like fear,

Hopes something comes around.

Two men approach, swift on their feet,

The villains do not turn,

Their work accomplished by this time,

No reasons for concern.

The man's attackers left off quick,

and as the two good men

were leaning o'er the fallen man,

They quizzed him to no end.

“Are you ok?” and “Are you hurt?”

“Is anything un-well?”,

The villains slipped away unseen,

Their exit hidden well.

Then Ernie hurried, jogged to them,

To where the three remained.

He offered help though he felt lost

In first-aid skills untrained.

His instinct spoke quite quick to him

He thought of C.P.R.

And how that would not help him now.

Or take him very far.

The farm would often bring about

An injury or fuss

At work or play one might misstep

But most not serious.

A smirk betrays a man in thought

When his mind has arrived

Before his body feels a thing;

His heart before his mind.

As Ernie searched his head for some

Appropriate response,

Envisioned "Suck it up" just like

His father's nonchalance

II: The Ballad of Elijah Sinclair

The smell just wafts in place and waits

And here it finds our man.

Just one more tick, the clock exclaims

And then we go again.

Elijah wakes and rises now.

The sun comes close behind.

The fire that burns the same in both

Ignites the world it finds.

No pain is known, nor registered

A feeling faint and thin;

A hunger or a tingling thing

Like water drops on skin.

An early morning workout finds

Elijah sharpened more.

Today the callous daily grind

Repeats the night before.

The camphor, sweat; hard work's reward.

Pain eased yet still received.

Elijah worked like no-one else.

but fear his faith relieved.

Why did this fire burn in him?

No, no-one asked nor told.

With one eye open to the sun

and one eye worried cold.

As if he had some fires to tend

That none would understand.

And true to him his demons were

To tend those firebrands.

The devil, he himself daren't ask,

For fear of judgement sent.

For if he learned what's hid he'd die

Of sheer Embarrassment.

Elijah, your reward is this

For your work hard and tough:

Self-worth and injury are yours

As if that is enough.

Enough is never good enough.

And so the working goes

With passion-fueled relentless work

To his opponents' woes.

"My work's not done. I've just begun."

"I'll keep on, I'm the one!"

"I see my prize it's distant still."

"I'll fight 'till I have won."

Elijah works to be affirmed,

To hear proclaimed his might.

"...And new!" he'll hear and gain The Belt

But inward on he'll fight.

But "Champ" is not what life comes to.

Not quite enough to fill.

Not yet, no I must wait to hear

The blessed words "...And still."

Within these ropes, travail again!

You must, o weary soul!

You must continue on this quest;

Have hope to reach your goal.

Fail not, or you would fail yourself.

To cease would solve nothing.

An empty void? Or simply just

The scent of suffering.

So Fight, Elijah, and forget

That all yet leave you lone.

Fight harder now, fight brought you here

And fight will see you home.

Each man Elijah meets, a test.

Each step is through the clouds.

Each man is tested and does test.

The man's made in the rounds.

* * *

He stops and steely looks at me

And for the first time grins

He says to me like we're old friends

"It's time to feel your sins."

I choked as if my ears would breathe.

I reached within my soul.

I begged Elijah for reprieve.

But he keeps not the roll.

So who would I in darkness beg?

How strong Elijah's will?

And then Elijah ko'd me.

Those words came clear: "...and still!"

Elijah's rock hard victory

Stayed stinging as we rose,

The victor's sting like medicine

That curls inside the nose.

The camphor smell that comes to me,

The cutman's practised art;

The feeling comes from all around

And works to heal the heart.

I stand now on the street corners

And beckon memories

As I recall how much like stone

Your punches flung at me

I know how life is mountain-tall

And victory is sweet.

Shy not, you faithful from your work.

Caress the pain sublime.

Prepare for challenges in life

As if there is no time.

III: The Ballad of Davey

A babe controls and owns his world

And grasps at things to test.

The things he can discover yet,

Each touch a thing possessed.

His time is not yet measured here

And so when mother speaks

Aspiring baby, confident

and fearless doesn't see.

His visionary, limitless

World where all things would be

Attainable, and his skill true

To mimic perfectly.

He reaches out to grasp the moon,

As everything he sees,

He would take as his own to keep

Were it within his reach.

To watch as she moves back and forth,

By her own will compelled.

This movement marvellous was grand!

Oh to be self-propelled.

He wanted so to move as she,

So powerful to choose

One's whereabouts as one desires,

To change where one would move.

She Effortlessly strolled across

The kitchen floor; she sped

As Davey marvelled at her stride

Just watching from his bed.

When she returned, within in her hand

Perhaps a toy that's new

Just something small that she then tried

To give to him to chew.

But Davey asked to look at it,

To see the thing she sent.

And then he tasted it, surprised!

Regretting that event.

He turned away, she sighed and struggled,

Still following his flight.

Though he evaded, something landed

That made mom's face turn bright.

Once in his mouth, he swallowed it.

She wiped his face and brow

And put the medicine away,

This struggle over now.

Then Davey wanted to withdraw

Just momentarily.

His mother picked him up again,

And settled him at ease.

At once again he whisked away

Borne on Mom's scented joy

To then appear in front of some

New precious object toy.

He landed in familiar space

With blankets, and soft sounds.

He wanted to resist the soft,

Reach out and crawl around.

He wanted to discover more,

But he was weaker here

And this time he just didn't move.

And calmness drew him near.

His body became still but for

His breath; he made a spate,

To pass command of his small form,

Into a resting state.

Young Davey held ev'rything in

His hands and held it true

But he would let it go just brief

For a moment or two.

Yet this compelling feeling came

To overtake his own.

He closed his eyes, his hands relaxed,

His guard completely down.

Young Davey fell into a sleep,

And dreamed of wide awake,

And dreamed of dominion over

All things to see or take.

IV: The Ballad of 2 AM

He called, “You don't have to go home”,

Then “But you can't stay here!”

The night fell to the weighty drone.

Of revelry's thick air.

A hanging haze as thick as fate;

As thick as fate and beer

The one supports the other then

Fate holds the other dear.

Elijah's world went dark and clear

While at the same time free.

The roar around him disappeared

And he could clearly see.

See everything, without the din,

No noise, no haze for him.

A cloud that only focused him

While others' gaze grew dim.

He turned his gaze full onto Duane.

His movement felt as though

With every cell immune to pain

He turned ever so slow.

He held Duane firmly in his grip,

Confined despite his tries

The python-grip and un-loose lip

Held by Elijah's eyes.

Duane felt he might be choking then

But in an instant gone.

How long had he been breathless now?

What strange thing had he done?

Provoking this fierce spirit whose

Eyes stabbed him with a blend

Of pain brought he'd not felt before

And could not comprehend.

Duane was so struck by those eyes that

He raised his hand to see

If he himself was dripping blood,

And not Elijah's cheek.

Elijah's world remained clear, crisp

And wanting but for this:

The element of time. A force

That one may not dismiss.

But time had opted out of this

And ceased to be a factor.

Some moment immeasurable,

Elijah felt no matter.

He saw himself. He watched as he

Responded to the man.

He saw some actions that he had

Not taken yet nor planned.

Acts hurtling toward the men

And to reality,

Rushed through a tunnel of time's light,

To catch up to their beam.

Elijah blinks. He stops all time,

Just hesitates, not froze.

He'll not destroy his enemy.

Instead he grabs him close.

Elijah grabbed Duane by the arm

And effortlessly pulled

Him in directions he could not

Resist, try best he could.

Duane stumbled, and Elijah whirled

To Bring him to the door

To push him out into the street,

Depositing him there.

Duane landed on the first man out

And stared wondering why

He had so suddenly flown out

When he was just inside.

Duane stood and looked Elijah's way,

Saw he would let him go.

Without pursuit Duane looked away

To his initial foe.

He did not move, this other man,

Just stared him up and down.

Duane fiercely fixed his gaze on him,

Still throwing curses round.

Still cursing while he ran away

Far flung and with a snub.

No-one pursued. That was the end

Of this night at this club.

Elijah's cut was not so bad,

But on his face to see.

He probably would have ignored

But for the policy.

The manager had made it clear

The policy wrapped up.

Just see a doctor to ensure

No one would sue the club.

If it were superficial, just

a bruise or scrape of skin

It would have been so easy then

To keep a secret in.

Someone will ask, definitely.

The cut is on the face.

The doctor must write this one up

To keep work at this place.

But maybe this job isn't worth

But then again what if

A rude disease was passed along

From this barroom miff.

Two cops and he sat down at some

Soiled sterile dining wheel

They asked him questions, knowing not

There were no answers real.

No answers in the universe.

They asked, "What did those two?"

"And were there witnesses? And did"

"They quarrel as brutes do?"

There were a thousand questions more

The kind that just are born

And left for dead or worse

On any late night thorn.

At last enough procedures done,

The cops got up to go

They bluntly thanked Elijah for

Cooperating so.

As they left him to go about

His day he wondered which,

Now Sunday or still Saturday?

These thoughts came as a twitch.

He rose and went about to find

Eventually his way

Along a corridor to reach

The bus stop in its bay.

* * *

Emerging out into the sun

He hadn't seen within,

Elijah ran into someone

Who held his breath for him.

He saw that Sharon came to find,

An armful of sunshine.

To think, but yet her thoughts were stayed,

And plaguing her inside.

Her thoughts of Davey playing out

In fields in happy days,

She smiled a long, long time but still

Sometimes she winced and swayed.

And smiling too, just as a wince,

It tears her through and through

As she remembers the boy's fate,

Still smiling through her blue.

Unwittingly, there Sharon stood

Beside the bus stop bench.

She looked and saw Elijah walk

Toward her, she felt drenched.

And in her start, she panicked then,

And stepped unsure a bit,

As if she'd been robbed by disease

Or medicine unfit.

So Sharon didn't quite have time

To fall before Elijah

Reached out and caught her arm so she

Could balance. "Whoa there, mind ya!"

Elijah was accustomed to

Take folks so by the arm

To help them out, but not this sort

Of help with subtle charm.

She felt a firm grip, confident.

As she backed up, he loosed

His grip and awkwardly he asked

"OK?" They smiled, amused.

"I'm fine, I think." She nodded back.

"(The lunchroom I just passed...)"

A bowl of soup, yes that will do."

Her mind was swirling fast.

She thought out loud, explaining it

To tell herself how she

Had been so weak to end up here,

How could she let this be?

The old stone stairs invited her,

The hand rail helped her up.

Elijah knowing, waiting, sat

'Til his bus woke him up.

V: The Ballad of Ernie and Elijah

As suddenly as he had come,

Were Ernie's steps at loss,

Emerging from within the park.

Just having walked across.

He'd strained to take in details, but

Had not realized he'd then

Be stood before a city street

So suddenly again.

He kept on walking, eyes still strained,

To see details unvexed.

Avoiding stopping to look round

While figuring where next.

He wondered should he return by

The path the park contained

To try to find his own hotel.

Before his bearings waned.

As Ernie walked, he saw a bus

As people disembarked.

He paused, the sidewalk flooding full

and looked toward the park.

The way was blocked with person flow

Preventing his return.

He looked away and walked into

A strong man looking stern.

He walked into Elijah's frame,

That stood awaiting while

He stood on sidewalk to be seen

By Ernie's dazzled eye.

He spun his head, and doing, grazed

A shoulder with a flick.

Elijah felt Ernie's cap's peak

And Ernie stepped back quick.

Oops. "Sorry." Said the farming man.

Elijah watched him peer,

Continuing to look around

To find some bearing here.

But since he had not been before

In this place or its kind,

No bearings were about to come

He stood as if snowblind.

Elijah said "You look lost, friend."

"No," Ernie then declined,

But gave up on the bluff before

He uttered the whole line.

"How do I find the hospital?"

He asked, in thinking it,

If practical, would make him seem

Less of an idiot.

"That bus goes to the hospital."

They watched it drive away

Elijah thought to try explain,

But knew not what to say.

From hospital and back again,

Look for it turned around.

Across the street, the other side.

And go a block on down.

Its number must be seven-five,

But not express, watch so!

And not the one that does not go

The way you need to go.

Elijah stopped himself in this

Self-conversation checked.

"I'll show you where to get on then,"

Elijah said and left.

Together they walked 'cross the street,

Unknown to Ernie where

Or how far they were going to go.

Or if he should go there.

His thoughts did entertain hotels

And cab rides back thereto.

If he would be still better off

To find his way back through.

Elijah thought about the bus

Next coming by this grass.

"You need to have the change they want"

"Or token or a pass."

So Ernie counted money while

The men walked talking slack,

Uneasy walking forward but

Less easy to turn back.

They sat down on the bus stop bench,

To wait while it came round.

In twenty minutes it arrived

To take them where they're bound.

The two of them did board the bus,

Elijah's thoughts went dumb,

And Ernie sat uneasily,

Both wond'ring why they'd come.

Elijah did not realize

He knew not why he went

Until he'd shown his pass and sat

With Ernie on the bench.

The bus stopped uneventfully

But then the passengers

Began to realize the bus

Was stopped: bad luck was theirs.

No thing seemed wrong except they'd stopped.

The driver told them that

A maintenance car would be there

To fix it, no time flat.

Another bus was promised soon

To take the people on

Elijah said, "Well we could walk."

And they at once were gone.

So glad was Ernie for the walk

No bus, just on the feet.

Elijah walked a mile as if

It were across the street.

With comfort coming to them then,

They fin'ly spoke at length.

First "My name's Ernie Dueck," and

"Elijah Sinclair, friend."

"I come from out of town," he said

But Ernie thought then that

This statement seemed quite obvious,

Regretting it, in fact.

To his surprise, Elijah said

"Me too. I'm from up north."

"You never heard of it," he said.

The men established worth.

"What is the place called?" Ernie asked.

He wondered if he'd know

If it were one of places three

He thought Elijah's home.

The thought of three communities

He knew was hardly fair.

If it were any other place

He'd have no knowledge there.

The place Elijah named was not

Distinguished nor renown.

But maybe said in English tongue,

he could have known the town.

Just "Oh." he said. "How Far is it?"

His curiosity

Fed by the silent steps they took,

To break the silence free.

"It's seven hours drive," he said.

"With nothing on the way.

Fit only for a four-by-four.

And stow some gas away."

"I see." He drew a picture with

The things his mind would lend,

Of driving to the land and where

Those seven hours would end.

In the trajectory to drive

Least inhabitation.

The people did not choose this place,

It's a reservation.

To match his ambiguity,

"I have a farm," he said,

"some three and half hours south and east."

He hoped he'd kept the thread.

Elijah nodded and made sounds

Affirmative perhaps,

Or reassuring Ernie he'd

Discerned without a lapse.

But either way with yes or sure,

With affirmation or

With reassurance, it's the same

Thing they were talking for.

Both men knew of geography

They'd no more need to care.

Directions were not needed now

There was no need to share.

Then Ernie made the silence break,

He felt he owed it plain

Because he was the city's guest

He wanted to explain.

"My boy is sick," he said abrupt,

Then, "He was born that way,"

"Seems ev'rything is rare somehow."

"Condition's rare, they say."

As Ernie thought about his words

He wondered at them too.

He wondered what he'd said aloud

And if they might be true.

"We don't know if he will improve."

"If he'll get better now"

"Or if he will get worse, but yet"

"If he improves somehow..."

"If it gets worse it will be soon,"

"I think. But if improved,"

"Well then I think it won't be soon."

Elijah thought this through.

Elijah thought about wisdom

Of elders that was shared,

Was handed down to him while his

Fist clenched and knuckles bared.

Elijah thought about how rare

Is every thing, and how

It always has existed and

Always been rare as now.

He thought about how he was one,

The only one that held

The spirit of the warrior

The way he was compelled.

How then for generations back

In time there was always

A one of him, and only one.

And so his spirit says.

He thought of Ernie's son, and how

There's only one of him.

And one of Ernie too, just like

There's only one Sharon.

Traditionally women owned

A strength that says amen,

That only women have to show,

A thing unmatched by men.

And there are things that men so own

In roles that won't let go.

Tradition played the rules, only

The men knew what men know.

The two men shared a lifetime then,

And many lifetimes more

Of wisdom on their short shared walk

Up to hospital doors.

They stood next to a parking lot

And talked at length of things

They never dared discuss before

For what the daring brings.

Somehow this freedom in their lives,

Where struggle was at play.

And they each gave directions home,

For just in case, one day.

The friends departed, diff'rent ways

And neither one looked back.

Except the eye that's in the mind,

which always studies facts.

Epilogue

The fragrance lingers once again

Far off in some vain place.

The camphor smell comes with the pain,

Undone without a trace.

This place, here anyone can feel

Our inabilities

To save a life that's dangling,

which leaves us ill at ease.

The other kind of camph'rous smell,

An unexpected link

The kind that's meant to ease the pain,

But only seals it in.

We're all afraid to look around

At one another then,

But there we were, staring, seeing

The thoughts rose from us men.

Fin'ly Elijah broke the air.

"There's work, I've gotta run."

The intensity then faded

To determination.

So Ernie picked the bottles up,

And bandages he packed.

He started loading them into

A blanket like a sack.

He did not stop while cleaning up

Until that room emptied

And everything was in its place

Or hauled to charity.

I see Ernie sometimes in town.

We interrupt our bliss.

We talk of things that matter still.

But never about this.

-Fin

Singing Sweet Science

Striking as breathing

Naturally Occurring

Singing Sweet Science

The Kids Are Fighting Again

Now boys, don't fight! I see you girls, be good!

It's time to go, now get into the car.

How cute! The uniform and belt in white.

The belt's a darker shade each season new.

Congrats your medal shines when you compete.

It's character that builds as you perform.

Now boys, don't fight! I see you girls, be good!

Now practise hard so you may well aspire

To things I cannot do; show discipline.

They punch each other, kicking high and low.

They learn the rules, and what it costs to break them.

They learn the rules, and what it takes to break them.

Now boys, don't fight! I see you girls, be good!

Should I have guessed? Should I have known this end?

The final step, the lesson learned is grand.

I raised you up to be elite, my child.

You heard my plea and now you've chosen this.

I look away because I cannot bear

The things you do, the way you are so strong.

You have no fear. I feared a weaker you.

What have I now? One not like me that's me.

I raised you up beyond the strength I have.

You're taller on the inside than I am.

And you have made me grow ten feet this day.

Dance and Fight

We teach the boys to fight

And teach the girls to dance

Then blame them for their circumstance.

They fight, they dance, they sin.

What else did we expect?

When they grow up they recollect.

We thought they would have pow'r.

Have pow'r, pow'rs to behold.

But it was power we withheld.

Bequeathed the politics

Of wallflowers' faint hearts,

What could they bring but these imparts?

What else did we expect?

No thing is truly bad

From fighters sweet and dancers sad.

To dance but with one's self

To fight to stay repressed.

We trained them in skills of neglect.

To meddle, who were we?

And who are we today?

What mettle have we anyway?

It's gathered in a sack,

Presented vainly here

To shadows of generations.

Good luck we wish you for,

Good planning we forgot.

All this, still now, hard-earned is naught.

A swollen land of milk and honey lies.

They fight for their country

And dance for their money

And inside everybody dies.

Ready

I am ready for you.

I've swept my room, I've prepared my mind, I've owned my future, and now I've come for it.

I am your doom, I'm what you will find when you just reach for your towel to forfeit.

I am out of your field of view.

You seek me because you can't resist, but you barely even exist.

You exist so that I can come to wipe you out like you can't undo; like you can't understand.

You are not my enemy or my victim, but you are the consequence of being less prepared than I am.

You will be redefined by my work, you'll wish you did not persist.

When my work is done, you won't be around.

You will be a faint memory, a matchstick used to light the tinder that begets my roaring flame.

I need you, and I am ready for you, and you are not important; you give me my name.

You fade as I work; my fortunes abound.

Iron Sharpens Iron Mike

I

Olympic gold in nineteen eighty-four.

We saw his record thirty-Seven-oh.

With nineteen knock-outs it's a thing of lore.

Until "and one": with Buster, Tokyo.

No losses in the ring, but losses came

And found him in his home, and took old Cus|

The father, mentor, coach, rendering lame

The boxer headed down a road of lust.

When life is hard, decisions are not easy

But when it's hard, decisions must be made

And when a man has no way to completely

Know of himself, he tends to look for shade.

To fight to win against a hard lament

To fight and end up in imprisonment.

II

Olympic gold in nineteen eighty-four.

A journey to become a journeyman

Imprisoned mid-career, they closed the door

Or so it seemed, 'til four fights in the plan.

The comeback from behind the walls and door

'Til Holyfield made forty-five and three.

Then Lewis made it forty-nine and four.

Then fifty wins and four, five, six, we see.

Until McBride. That final round, the one

He wouldn't come back for was his best round

Of his career. The one for all time won

Stay still, don't foul, and lose by TKO.

To fight to win against a hard lament

To fight and win against imprisonment.

III

Olympic gold in nineteen eighty-four.

Until at last the Journeyman arrived

Whose warrior ways would see him quit before

So that he could be sure his soul survived.

Old Cus had said "He fights with bad intent."

And all this time, intent was hiding him.

Though Cus is long gone, Mike did not relent.

Time is well-spent with birds and kids and whim.

With whims, still Iron Mike, and now un-vexed.

With firmer understandings of the past

Is this the journeyman's life so perplexed?

Or is redemption fin'ly his at last?

To fight to win against a hard lament

To fight and win against imprisonment

Twelve Rounds

"Twelve rounds or less", is what the poster said,

And also what my contract said, I guess.

I knew I needed to step in to start

The match, they'd ask me to step on the line.

The first round was the one I thought about

Because I figured it would be the one

I'd do or die, and if I did then more

Would come to me; I'd be already there.

One at a time, Good LORD, one at a time.

It's how you eat a meal like this, just one

Just one small bite gets taken at a time

Until it's gone or until I am gone.

You find about yourself as life goes on.

You find yourself in dire ways, you find

Yourself in need of strength that you don't have

And then you find out if you're made for this.

Some men will fold, and some will flail or fall.

Some men will look at it but will not try

Within yourself, what do you know for sure?

What truth is there, what strength, and does it matter?

Your appetite keeps up with you at first

The rounds go on, one at a time until

You find yourself so spent from fighting on

You question whether life's reward's enough.

These opening few rounds have come and gone

The numbers are a blur to me by now

I don't know if I'm up or down in rounds.

I'm waiting for this thing to end.

"Twelve rounds or less," is what the poster said.

You find about yourself as fights go on.

You find the moment you've arrived upon.

You live within the championship rounds.

A Puncher's Chance

As one might say, a "dog whose day is done"

But no-one knows the sharpness of those fangs

Or where they last will land, on flesh or bone.

But know: the dog won't leave the prize alone.

A dog whose day is done just ought to know,

And ought to know just when the bone is dry

But yet it's true one dog's content to lie

While other dogs still gnaw the bone, still try.

A puncher's chance defines this vain pursuit

A puncher's chance is always good despite

The goings on, the slick opponent's skill

A puncher's chance relies on strength and will.

When in the 5th he was knocked down, he did

Not dare lose heart. He knocked back in reply

And fought no matter how the score went down

Because you know, the points just win the round.

The puncher knows the truth, but for a man

To fight through that and want to win enough,

To win against a one who's been around

This game, he must withstand another round.

He's lurching, stepping round in stumbles now,

Committing all to ev'ry forward step

As if it were a leap from some tall place,

As if it were his only saving grace.

He's punching now, with greater strength than his,

Defying all statistics that are raised.

He is defined by this: he is a puncher.

He hears a voice, it has no name, it's thunder.

He throws his all, and some that aren't his own

And knowing that no matter how few knock-

Out punches yet are thrown before they're done,

In any given match, he needs but one.

Believe because the way you've seen him dance,

Your eyes are fixed; he's got a puncher's chance.

By rights, he'd lose in any circumstance

But carries on; he's got a puncher's chance.

Stillness

Young acolyte, stand patiently and wait

While you pursue a victory within.

Stand in the form that victory will take

As outer form is still, the inner roars.

A river reaching to extremities,

To ev'ry part that wants to change, or needs.

As if there were a beast of burden there

To bear you, stand on soaring inner strength

That holds you up, supporting outer stillness.

The pull and push, a beckon and the answer,

A yin and yang, continuous pursuit

Of that which one day is to lie within.

With skin like water's taut top covering

Designed by time to there create a tension

Upon its surface, barrier like glass

That's stretched on muscle, over sinew strands,

Infused with blood, with blood awakening

And energy that courses through your form.

Your body cloaked in muscle holds the form

While flowing on the inside, waiting still.

Designed by time to mimic currents felt

And weaving under surface of the water,

Withholding there within its boundaries,

As if it had a skin as real as steel.

The spirit grows and thickens, fed by blood

And energy designed by time to blend

With every element. A planted seed

Is for a lifetime's growth; first pose, prepare,

Then ripening, the while you wait to reap.

This unseen form's hid by the form you see.

You are the gardener who must take care

Designed by time to help create the moment.

An instant when the blossom will emerge

Just to become what it already is,

Not born, merely transformed into new life

By such a gardener whose patience wins.

The Referee

The third man in the ring's light on his feet,

Sharp with his eyes, and he's quick to respond,

He is decisive and he's accurate

In all that he does.

The third man in the ring, the first of these three

To step into the ring, today, or ever.

And now he still pursues a victory

In all that he does.

The third man in the ring plays neither side,

Knows when to step, and when he should step back.

He always carefully plays by the rules

In all that he does.

The third man in the ring sees how each player

Plays on the other, and gives up or takes in

The other player's opportunity

In all that he does.

The third man in the ring sees every chance,

Abounding opportunities to score

He yet restrains his core's response to this

In all that he does.

The third man in the ring can't leave it be

His head is in the game, he plays along

And this now is as close then as he gets

In all that he does.

Seven, Seven, Cherry

Try my luck. Don't worry, everything will be ok. Go ahead. Try my luck.

You will see. I have a history, I recall. I have a history

That tells me it's my time. My lucky time is now. I've played for long enough

Now, you see... my time to win has come. So, play with me. Play this game because

I'll win, and someone has to lose this. Seven, seven, cherry.

Just like my memories: Seven, seven, cherry. Just like all those times that

I dropped another coin and pressed that button one more time and knew that each

Time was a new random chance and I knew even then that the house always wins.

But not so really, right? Not always? This time could be different. I see it

Happening. I could win this time, I see a red seven, then another

Seven, then... cherry, oh--expletive! Ev'ry time, ev'ry time, ev-ery...

Those were my days. Those were my lost years. That time is done now though, now I'm here.

I spent years digging that ditch just to water another man's crops for him.

I broke a sweat on the first day and nearly broke my back on the last day.

I swore that things would be different starting then. And they were, and they are.

I left that life behind. I'm here because I tried and not because of chance.

I'm in this contest, I'm in this game, within a ring where I have high hopes

Wherein I know how to do this I know I can rise and defeat this man

He's my opponent and I know that all I need to do is set a trap.

I'll set the bait. I'll make him bend my way, I'll make him give this match to me.

Now I'm in charge of this house and the house always wins the game.

I'll drop the coin and I'll press on the button to set the bait just for him.

This joker's button is my double jab. He thinks I'll throw hooks. Sucker. Ha.

He lowers his right side elbow. That's my first hit - that's the first seven lit!

My second jab stings him. That's the next, second lit seven and now he's set!

His guard is low and I throw a strong power left to the head. Cherry. Ugh.

I threw but he wasn't even there. He saw me coming this time. Again.

But still, I know the game so well I could have invented it, so why this?

I know the game so well I could teach anyone. Anyone except me.

I play the game like a seasoned pro, because that's what I am. But then I play

Well and I nearly win, and I know I could win, if I could. But I can't.

I'm not that player. I've learned all I can and this rank is my last title.

Seven, seven, cherry.

Kick Your Friends

If you can't kick your friends, who can you kick?

We get up early every Saturday

Because it's what gets done around the world

We go to gyms to meet our friends and fight.

Our friends are there for reasons like our own

We need to be in front of some attack

We need to strategize 'cause this time see,

Yes, it will work, I will have earned the point.

We study hard for this, to get it right.

We trade in sweat, it's mine for yours and back

As round for round and drill for drill we go

And dripping now, the heaving air is wet.

I need one more, just one more round because

I know I'll land it on my mark this time.

But yet, I must recall it works both ways:

If your friends can't kick you, who can they kick?

Fight Night

It's fight night here tonight

And we've all come to feel alright.

A "smack!" and flash and roar:

High thrills we have not seen before.

The punch, the press, the crowd,

A champion whose head's un-bowed.

All waiting for the man

To fall or rally for the fan,

To lose or win the day

To fight back when we see him sway.

But wait, what's happened now?

This fight got good, s'a bloody row!

The smack that only comes

From leather striking skin that numbs.

The Reyes! Reyes gloves,

I knew we'd come to this. Look, doves!

This Circus

It's not the boxing match that so excites.

It's those two fighters who both said "Okay."

It's just the fact that two showed up to fight,

And they made good so we could see the way

This circus came about, the childhood stake

Of lack and loss, of cotton candy chaste

A thousand times, they have refused to take

A shortcut to a pleasured life, to taste

The wine that dries them out, to smile and say

"I feel alright." The circus came and promised

How suns would rise and nights would set away

And pleasure still would seek them out like bandits.

The way this circus came about's no fairness.

The truth none know is this is all that there is.

Soft Like Cotton

Soft like cotton: Your body must be so.

Allow your body to be bent sometimes.

Not like tofu: A great man said it's so.

Do not go soft and cause your own demise.

Don't question your own strength, believe in how,

As strong as is a flag in wind, but better.

Don't fear the softness of your sinews now

Your strength is strong to shield from any weather

Your foe will look for weakness to confront

And when your cotton body folds and wraps

Around as does a python in the hunt

Your foe will fall while your strength tightly traps.

For inspiration I would like to thank

Grandmaster Doc Fai Wong, who spoke so frank.

Prizefighting in Heaven

But will there be prizefighting done up there?

"Now now, hush hush, don't ask of things like these!"

But so, who knows it's ours on Earth to care,

To fight because there only will be peace

In Heaven. (But who knew that this was true?)

The Earthly pleasures born of fighting's essence

Are ours because (Who knew that this was true?)

The heavenly pure pleasures of God's presence

Are not available to us down here.

The trade is combat swapped for paradise

Fight tooth and nail or watch while drinking beer

A limitless expanse of pleasured vice.

And this is just as simple as it even

Can be: On Earth just as it is in heaven.

Lazyweight

Laaaaaaaadeeeeeezzzzzzand gentlemen!

Introducing

In the red corner

Weighing in at two hundred sixty-five pounds

In the lazyweight division

Hailing from a comfortable place in California

By way of a privileged upbringing

In a family that was relatively well-off

In a small community

Where he managed to remain aloof

Due to his inability

To connect socially

With any peer group.

Making his debut in this arena

In a desperate attempt

To fight his way into

Acceptance

In some fashion

With either his fighting peers

Or his yet-to-be-won fan base.

That is, if he can survive

The gauntlet of initiation

Into the sport of prizefighting

And let that experience turn him

Into the man he would be.

Options

My friends and I,

We sit around a table

All looking long across the room

Not giving up a bit of detail

While anyone that walks into the room

Is x-rayed by our gazes, one man at a time

And all at once.

We do not speak about it

But we all look at one another

And one of us then says

"That's a tall dude."

"Yeah. I'd definitely fight him on the inside."

"Duh. Did you see the way his toes point out though? Knees."

"Well yeah, that's what I would do on the inside. Attack his knees."

"Well on the inside I would overcome his weak knees and take him down."

"Yeah. Options."

And so it is, for those of us who will meet every face

With such an analytical smooth greeting of a fighter.

And so it is, when I see you smile for the first time

And I then think about the ways I might so need

To overcome or overtake you

Because contingency planning

Is just the thing I learned the best.

A Boxer's Doxology

Praise God from whom all blessings flow

Praise Him as punches I will throw

Praise Him above ye heavenly host

Praise boxing, that which soothes me most.

Yes, I can do all things through Christ,

Yea verily, I shall not fear.

And for these blessings I will thank

My Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.

I ask you, Great Counsellor, now

To guide and bless my fight tonight,

To grant to me victory in here

While back at home my fam'ly waits.

I ask protection for tonight

For me and my opponent both

Amid this pugilist contest

And in the time of my great need.

And if my man will pray to you

I ask that you would hear me first

For you and I know I need this

And if I lose I'll lose it all.

I fear no man but I fear loss.

I fear not losing but I fear

What if I have to start again

What if I've nothing after this.

Praise God for the victory blow

Praise Him all creatures here below

Praise fighters, all ye heavenly host

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

Table of Contents

Start

For the Love of Punching

Camphor

Singing Sweet Science

The Kids Are Fighting Again

Dance and Fight

Ready

Iron Sharpens Iron Mike

Twelve Rounds

A Puncher's Chance

Stillness

The Referee

Seven, Seven, Cherry

Kick Your Friends

Fight Night

This Circus

Soft Like Cotton

Prizefighting in Heaven

Lazyweight

Options

A Boxer's Doxology