The love of my father was boxing
seeing my father slicing
The wind with his bare hands
Shadow boxing by his lonesome
Like if he was fighting the wind
The wind was his sparring partner
the sounds of his fists cutting through the air
I saw the violence and art
my dear father moves slower
After many decades
his punches have lost its sound
and his movement
has lost rhythm of time
the wind has beaten him over the years
it has taken my father all he’s had to fight
His last fight  
Even the wind has taken the last wind out of him

Bobbing and weaving,
Slipping and jabbing.

The fighting stance against a thousand opponents,
All of whom, look like me,
Is a stance I can only articulate,
In a mirror,
Shadow boxing that guy,
Strangely looking like me.

Pop-Pop BANG,
I throw punches at the air in front of me,
This bull can rage like Cinderella in a cage,
A square, roped cage,
Where life’s uppercuts put me in a daze.

The fighter in me,
One stubborn little *******,
Iron-jawed and iron-clawed,
Always taking one to the gut,
I fall down and so ruthlessly get back up.

24 and 0,
I’m the undefeated world champion,
My opponent remains consistent,
But I’m not afraid,
I got this far,
You think I can’t go a few more rounds?

It creeps up 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 of you
The darkness.
I can feel it too.
It reaches up and 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒔 you
And pulls you
𝑫𝒐𝒘𝒏
𝑫𝒐𝒘𝒏
𝑫𝒐𝒘𝒏
Some days it has me in a 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌
A headlock inside my 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅
Locked because I
𝑪𝒂𝒏’𝒕.
𝑮𝒆𝒕.
𝑶𝒖𝒕.
Some nights my mind 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔 at me
Like it’s 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒚
Like it’s 𝒑𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 me for something.
The 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 fly so fast they’re like 𝒋𝒂𝒃𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔
In the boxing ring.

I try to fight them.

Some nights I come out 𝒗𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔.

Not tonight.

I’m 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅, feeling each 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒘 like a million 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒔 on my 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕.

𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.
𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.

𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.

𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆.

Why can’t I 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 how to 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆?

on the ropes: pummelled;
somehow, he stays on his feet:
the bell ends the round!

I'm an ex-prizefighter and my name is Glass Joe.
If you're wondering if I could win fights, the answer is no.
I got my *** kicked by a shrimp and his name is Little Mac.
I got knocked out in the first round when that boy attacked.
I'm called Glass Joe because my jaw is made of glass.
It was humiliating because anybody could kick my ***.
People laugh at my losses and it's something I resent.
I happen to be Glass Joe Biden and I'm the President.
I run America but I sure can't take a punch.
If you hit me in my stomach, I'll lose my lunch.
I lied to everybody when I said that I came from France.
I got *** whippings in the ring, I never stood a chance.
Even old women could knock me out and I'm not a fighter anymore.
If Americans learn that I lost ninety-nine fights, I won't win in 2024.

wanna be her cutman?

you’ll trace every wound, grease
all her vulnerabilities
and the taste of forged metal
will flavour your dreams

she’ll dance with you watching,
a storm over canvas
and she’ll swing for those *******
like a silk-wrapped machine  

wanna be her cutman?

you’ll watch as each cut’s inflicted
then wait your turn to touch
to your hand she’ll ever-be Vaseline slick
or sticky with blood

she’ll hide vibrant colours behind
gunmetal hues but beneath careful fingers
her scars will tell truths- and
they’ll burn fire tattoos into your heart

wanna be her cutman?
you sure?

(you’ll wish dead every guy
has her over ropes or on canvas, but  
she’ll be eyeing those guys while
you’re fixing her up)

gloves-off, she
leans on her back foot
moves fast and hides tired eyes
behind a battle-blue arm  

from a punch-bloodied mouth
she spills and spits words out on canvas
makes way for cool air- tries to
pacify lungs before they explode, calm
a heart that longs to rebel

she needs to feel loved, but can
be understood only by tracing braille-like-trauma
on her Vaseline skin-
and if she’s not out for the count
she doesn't keep still

When I first met you, I cried.
Looking upon your silhouette, I wondered.

Reading your articles, I wanted to know you.
Searching for hours, I would find you.

A traveling boxer, just breaking into fame.
A husband, a father.

She moved from Pennsylvania to Oregon, and was your demise in 1902.
I moved from Pennsylvania to Oregon, and I will remember you.

A decade younger than her, but I feel the responsibility heavy on my shoulders. The resemblance to me, uncanny

She took you to your grave and I will celebrate your life.

Why did it have to take this long?