It was a beautiful day as it started
The sun was up as I departed
I went outside and to my surprise
Stood a man in mid-town with gleaming eyes

Like the wind the man just blew into town
With not a name he made no sound
As we all gazed at the man dressed in black
Nobody said a word of respect for his plaque

He opened his mouth, the man finally spoke
“I am here for the blacks” he said standing next to the oak
I did not say a word for I was not
Turned the other cheek and did not a lot

I turned away relieved and went home
With a smile on my face, I was sparred and I wasn’t alone
So I lay in my bed knowing full well
For more than a second on the matter I dare not dwell

I awoke the next morning good as the last
Quickly got on my clothes and went outside fast
Once again to my surprise
The man stood in mid-town with puzzling eyes

We all looked at the man with a deep stare
And asked “why are you back aren’t we the ones you’ve sparred”
“Wasn’t it the blacks that you so heavily eyed?”
“The blacks, oh no, not them,” he replied

“If it wasn’t the blacks than you are here for who?”
To which he replied “none but the Jew”
As he stood next to the wall with a cross to his side
Most were relieved, but several cried


I once again was thankful because I was not
Through the whole ordeal I did, not a lot
As I turned away relieved I went back home
With a smile on my face, I was sparred and I wasn’t alone
So I lay in my bed knowing full well
For more than a second on the matter I didn’t dwell

The Chinese he came for the next day
Standing next to the rails where the bodies decay
So it came with each passing day
He blew into town and took more away

With each passing time I stood there because I was not
From all the misery witnessed, I did not a lot
And every day that I went home
I had a smile on my face because I was sparred and I wasn’t alone

Finally one day that I woke up
The world was bleak all around me, while I sipped from my cup
No one in the streets, not a soul there
I stood all alone in the town square

Then the man in black came once again
“There is no one left, for who are you here to obtain”
“You, my humble servant” the man said
“I am no puppet of yours” I answered with my face turning red
“Ahh but, who has served me more faithfully
Than you with your cowards hope” answered he
“And where are the others that might have stood”
“Side by side in the common good”
“Dead” I said amiably
“Murdered” the man corrected me
“First the blacks and then the Jew
I did no more than you let me do”

“With your denial and your false hope
You’ve reduced mankind to nothing but a joke
Enveloped in your own selfishness and greed
You were blinded to your own misdeed”

As the man in black spoke that’s when I knew
That all of his evil, I let him do
And as I felt death’s sweet kiss
I thought to myself that ignorance is bliss

As the world crumbled all around me and turned to ash and debris
I just let it go by, with a nod and an agree
Submerging myself in a fake world of hope
I too late realized that I was the dope

For a long time I was happy because I was not
Turned away from it all not doing a lot
And now with no one to help me, I realized that I’ve always known
Truly now, I am all alone

This is not a poem, this is a story of a an 83 yr old man, that
got away with lying aboat his actual age, so he could box,
for the light weight Dallas County Iowa, championship.

"Howard is the name and these are my two knock out fists, Tuffy and Tougher and I'm here to sign up for the light heavy weight championship boxing title of Dallas County."

That was my official registration to the County boxing Commission.
They of course ask me my age and some other questions related to
my boxing experience, to which I lied very convincingly.

By the way, the way to lie convincingly is to literally believe yourself what you are lying about. I had spent hours telling myself the lies I told the Boxing Commission, so they had no doubt about what I told them about my boxing experience. I even had some fake newspaper articles about my boxing experiences that I printed on my home printing press. I'll tell more about this later in this story.

What motivated me to do this, was the current champion was the
Grandson of one of my high school classmates that I detested, because he was such a proud blow hard, about every athletically thing
he did, from being a baseball pitcher, a running back football player,
a wrestler and on and on he bragged about himself. One time when
I could not stomach his bragging and pompous way he walked, I confronted him to his face, actually his chin, as that was as close to
his face I stood. He was about 6' 4'' and I was slightly over 6'. I looked him in the eyes and told him I and everyone else in school was sick
and tired of his bragging about himself.

He then sneered a me, reached down and grabbed me by the callar of my shirt, and said. "Why you little dumb pipsqueak, you aint nothing but a hog raising farm boy!" and shoved me hard against
the hallway wall, so I smacked the back of my head against it, and was
knocked out for a few minutes, long enough for someone dumping a cup full of water on my face to bring me alert. Then ol blow hard
spread it around that I had attemped to hit him and he "just naturally" defended himself and gave me a little shove.

But back to the main part of this story, I had been working out in the city gym, working on my cardio, that's my breathing. I had been keeping up with my physical condition all of my life, so for an 83 yr old man  I am in good physical shape. I have been punching the heavy bag on daily basis and have had someone bouncing a heavy medicine ball on my stomach five minutes every day, so I have those three muscle stand outs on my stomach, that everybody ooos and aaas about.

I also sparred with young boys around 20 and 30 years old, convincing them I was just 28, by my foot work and bobbing and weaving and left-hand jabs. I still had a good head of hair, which I
had dyed a light black, which also convinced the boxing commission that I was 38, actually the year I was born, 1938

My boxing bout with the young grandson of this high school classmate that I detested, was supposed to be just a warm up match for him, in preparation for a title fight. He was the Dallas County Light Heavy Weight champion defending his title against some unbeaten
opponent. My goal was to knock him out and disqualify his title fight.

Oh yes, I neglected to mention my boxing manager, who was a young 62 year old retired boxer. He didn't grow up in
Dallas County, Iowa,  so he had no idea of my background age. He came from New York or New something.  I had him convinced that I was just 38 yrs old also. I grew up in a small town called Vermillion about 60 miles from Des Moines, where the fight was scheduled. Vermillion was a town with a population of around 2500 when I lived there. Most of the people who knew me are living under ground now, or in a old folks' home, so the secret of my age will not be revealed.
,
This grandson of the school mate I detested, is just like his Dad, a smart mouth, bragging, pompous, cocky Strutton showboat. He has no idea who I am but has already started boasting about what he is going to do t me.

"Hey, I'm only 27 yrs old and this old man I'm fighting is 38 yrs old. Somebody will have to help him through the ropes to get in the ring." "What's an old man like him still thinks he is a boxer?

"He ought to be sitting on his back porch, watching the rabbits and squirrels hop around."

"He claims to be 38 yrs old, I'll knock him out in 38 seconds in round 3."
   ,
He came to the gym when I was working out one morning to scout me out; I put on an act of being slow and winded.

He yelled at me from a few feet away, "Hey old man, my kid sister
has a faster jab then you. You sure you want to fight me?"

My manager walked up to him, and gave him a double arm shove
out the door, so hard he stumbled. "You big mouth punk, crawl
back in the skunk hole you came from."

                           The Big Fight

I was in the ring first and was warming up with little dance steps I had had learned in a dance studio, which I intended to use on him, BTW  his name was Virgil Throgmartin, but he took pride in calling himself, "V T"=Very Tuff.

He was taking his time coming to get into the ring, and when he did decide to enter, he did so with a bunch of short, skirted cheer leading girls dancing to loud music being played. When he approached the ring, two of the girls, squatted down on one knee and VT than made a big show of standing on each of their leg, and pushed himself off, tumbling over the ropes onto the ring apron.
amid 40,000 loud cheering fans.

"Enjoy it while you can VT, because in about 15 minutes, five three-minute rounds, yu're gonna have 40,000 stunned fans looking at you, sprawled halfway under the ring ropes, watching the referee
waving the fight over."
                                ROUND ONE
VT came quickly to the center of the ring with a stupid looking
grin on is face, hands down, swinging back and forth at his waist level.

I took a couple steps toward him, then through him a big surprise,
that stopped him in his tracks. I did a little two step tap dance, and in the few seconds it took him to recover from surprise, I took a quick step toward him and shot out a left jab, purposely hitting
his right eye. Over my years of boxing experience, I developed a
fast twist at the end of the jab. This little twist would tear the skin
producing a cut in the eyebrow, which it did to VT. I don't think he had ever been cut before by the way he wiped his eye, leaving his face unprotected, of which I took advantage, and smacked him with
another quick jab on his nose, drawing another spurt of blood.

VT wasn't expecting such an early barrage of attack and started back peddling. Once again, I put on my little tap dance,
to a 40,00 applauding, whistling crowd of men, women and teenagers. By now ol VT had no idea what to do with me. He took a quick look over at his corner for help. And when he did, I took a big step forward and planted to quick left jabs on each of his eyes.

I heard the fight announcer telling the radio listeners, he had never seen such a show boating boxer like Howard is putting
on. He has VT totally confused, not knowing what to do with
him. He came into this fight as a warmup for his upcoming defensive championship fight with The Rock, Rocky Argo and he is being bloodied and cut up, by what in the boxing sport is considered old, a man close to his 40's but is moving like a 25 or 26 year old. Folks I don't recall Howard in any past fights, but uh, hang on a moment Howard is moving around VT, bobbing, weaving and talking to him, I can't quite read his lips, but something about going down in uh, some round. Meanwhile VT continues to back pedal away from Howard, who is trying to cut him off....Oh! now Howard stops chasing him and motioned with his hands to come in and fight. There's the bell ending this third round.

There is some kind of commotion going on behind me.... someone wants to tell me something but is being detained by the police.
"Hey officers, let him talk to me. Folks, this is the craziest night I have ever experienced, let's see what this old man, I'm serious about Old, He must be  "Uh how old are you, sir?"

"I'm just a couple years younger than Howard. We grew up together in Vermillion, Iowa. I'm 81 years old and that old man in the ring, he was known as "Howie", is 83 years old and...."

"Hold on just jack rabbit minute! Are you telling me, that Howard,
  what did yu call him? Howie, that boxer in the ring, beating VT, the current light weight Dallas County champion, is 83 years old? Is that what you are saying?"

"Yep, dats whot Im sayng.We growed up t'gether, in da same school t'gether, wrestled and boxed t'gether, and I'm 81 years old and he was alays 2 yars older'n me, so I knows he is 83 yars old.

Folks., getting back to the fight, VT is circling to his right to get in position to throw is left hook and then is right overhand knockout punch. I think Howie is aware of what VT is trying and keeps circling to his left.


This is the  the round Howard bragged he would KO VT. VT is coming out in his usual swaggering way, Howard had him intimated in the first four rounds, with his little dancing jig and blooding his nose and eye. VT wasn't used to that kind of pressure, but his corner manager and some others that joined him, gave him a little pep talk, and so he has regained his confidence. As usual Howard, try's his little tap dance as he approaches VT, it's gotten a little much and no one is cheering it.

I failed to ask you, old man, your name"

"I was known as "The Rock in Vermillion my real name is Rocky Argo. You said dis is da round Howie is going to lower da boom on this young feller?"

"Well that's what he told the fight reporters in the newspaper. But frankly, I have doubts that he can do it. Thus far all I've seen from your friend is a few left jabs. He hasn't used his right in the entire fight."

"Well you just keep your eyes on his right; what yor going to see is a flurry of left jabs, and out of nowhere his right and will suddenly show up and that will be the end of the fight."

Well folks there is just two minutes left in this round, if Howie is going to KO VT, he is going to have to get more aggressive than, OH! Howie just connected with a double left jab, and another one and he had VT weak legged from a barrage of jabs. He looks like he is about to go down OH WOW Howie hit him with a straight right hand punch right between his eyes and VT is on the canvas, trying to get up, the count is up to 5, 6,7 VT was up at the count of 8 but collapse. The referee is waving the fight over, and the Dallas County  light heavy weight champion has been knocked out by Howie Howard in the 5th round just as he predicted."

"Let's listen as the referee announces the winner of this fight."
"And the winner and NEW DALLAS COUNTY LIGHT HEAVY WEIGHT CHAMPION IS HOWEEEEEE HOWWWARD!!

Howie, the talk around the dressing room is that you are 83 years old. Now tell us your real age. I mean, a 83 yr old man can't do that little jig you did tonight and beat up a 27 yr old. So c'mon and let this crowd and thousands of radio listeners know your real age."

"I was born on the twelfth day of July 1938, if my math is correct that makes me eighty-three years old, and that's the absolute truth."

"Ok, so tell us how you have kept in such physical shape to be able to
dance and beat up a young 37 year old champion boxer as you did tonight?"

"Well, first of all, I have to give God all the glory f or entrusting me
with an extraordinary physique. I have honored God many times in many ways because of this extraordinary body, that I , or others could not have done with a normal body. The second thing I want to emphasize is when I was just eight years old, I was convicted that there was a hellfire, called The Lake of Fire, that unbelievers in Jesus Christ are cast. I was just a small child, but I knew in my heart that in God's sight I was a sinner for whom Jesus suffered and died on the Cross of Calvary, and if I just received Him as my sin-bearer and personal Savior, He would forgive me all my sins for the rest of my life. And I have done a lot of sinning in my 83 years of living, one of which has been a distain for VT's grampa, with whom I graduated from the Vermillian High School in 1957. He was the most egotistical, arrogant, vain and proud ****-of-the-walk person I ever knew, and VT was just like him. His grampa died about five years ago, but I have held a grudge in my heart for VT's grandpa all my life, I thought it would give me great satisfaction to ruin his opportunity to fight for the Iowa State Championship.  So I arranged with the Iowa Dallas County Fight Promoters to give VT a warm up fight for him to fight the current Iowa State light heavy weight champion. I studied VT's fights and trained for them these past three months, with the intention of doing what I did to him tonight."

"So what are ..."Excuse me, I'm not finished yet. I thought I would feel good about beating the snot out of VT, but you know what? I don't. I was really enjoying it when I was blooding VT up, as though I was kicking the arrogance out of his grampa. But now that I've destroyed VT's  chance to fight for the Iowa State Championship, I feel empty inside, and feel sorry for VT. To all of you who paid out good money to see this fight, I just want to leave you with this one thought "A grudge is too heavy a load for anyone to carry"
     From Jerry Howarth's Book of Stories

Once upon a time
A beautiful sublime,
A girl like a prime
For love,made a crime.

She slowly took the love
Freed it like a dove
From her heart to above
And ruled it like a gov.

But as the time passed by
Her love flew towards sky
With a true flame by his side
Leaving down the coward sly.

A sadly,truly,deeply sorry
Felt this little girl named Laurie
But she takes the gun and chary,
The dearness killed,in silence bury.

She hid her right in his backyard
For Laurie,she a mistress has starred
But she shouldn't being sparred
By the girl with murderer regard.

The strangers sat
before the king,
their lips were flat
and eyes were ringed.
It was smoky in that
enormous room,
the vapors and gases
being ornaments hanging in the air.
"For what purpose were you there?"
asked the savage king,
whose eyes were darkly burning
in a face deeply sinking
in on itself.
With feathers in his hair
and paint dried on his skin,
he floated in the air
far above his kin.
Cortes knew the power
hidden deep within this man,
though alien in the hour
of this,
a continent's last stand.
With hands as white as snow
so deft so quick so sly
the contract was unknown
to that great man in the sky.
"To see and meet and greet you,
O' great man of this
strange
and foreign land."
Their eyes had locked in place,
two triggers pulled back taut,
waiting to erase
what the other sought.
Be it gold or riches or
love or power or fame or
ivory coated witches
that were taught no shame,
the two titans did not know
the immensity of the moment,
the branching of the seed
from the future calmly planted.
The trees now grow so far
they cover up the room
where two great conquerors once sparred
while destruction darkly loomed.
A storm gathered on the horizon,
thundering like drums,
winds strong like poison
greed as fast as guns.
They say the smoke still lingers
in all the old, pervasive places,
and that the forest still has fingers
in all the empty spaces.

His pressure was mounting
along with his weight.
He got into training
a little bit late.

In the grey light of morning
He'd be seen on the street.
sweating it out
on sneaker clad feet.

He sparred with his partners.
with few in the stands.
Then pummel the light bag
with lightening fast hands.

The fight date was approaching
and no one in the State
gave him much of a chance
of escaping his fate.

The champ was unbeaten.
He ground his foes down.
They'd be down, looking up
at the Champ looking down.

How then to cope
with an unbeatable foe?
This cup would not pass
even if he wished it so.

He was not getting younger,
This was his last shot.
Would he be one more challenger
that history forgot?

He was no timid soul,
avoiding the chance.
He'd go down swinging.
No regrets, he would dance.

He stepped into the ring
and they stood toe to toe
They touched gloved hands together
When the bell rings, you go.

And so I proceed moving on
To napkin 3 a number
Sparred from my mindless
Ranting and instead allowed
To sing the beauty
Of your creation you hold
The guitar in your hands
No
Not the words that escape from your lips but
The way I feel your voice project
Underlying messages that
Move like a mountain range
Crashing into me?

Go.
But make no mistake.
Leave behind no ****.
You have been lingering here
For far to long.
Your presence
Is a permanent scar in my mind.
You caused me pain once
Now I just want you gone.
And the blood I sparred is lost
But I will heal
Once you leave.
Make no mistake.
You might return.
If you lose the blades
That have split my heart.
Left me
Drained of
Me.
Filled with
You.

I had held myself as a greater man,
A soldier aloof from the whims of life.
The only things I cared for were the gladius in my hand
The screams of my enemies
As their blood dripped from my blade
And they lay clawing at my feet.

I went ******* with the boys
Played with them games of dice
Laughed at their jokes.
It was all lip service.
I did not care for their ways,
The ways of lesser men.
I was a soldier whose only lust was for blood.
I was better.

The new recruits came
With their beardless faces.
They huddled together for comfort,
Some cried to their mothers
Others prayed.
Those simpering wrecks were of no interest
Except for one
Erasmos.
With the stature of a god
The confidence of a titan
He stood amongst his peers
As a man stands amongst children.

It was not long until we sparred.
As good soldiers there was no need for words.
We both knew what was obvious
What was as certain as life and death
We were brothers in arms
Of the same breed
We were as one.

The fight came.
Outnumbered ten to one
We fought
Until blood soaked our faces
Our enemies and our own
Until crimson flooded our eyes
Our noses
Our mouths.

Before night fell we were the only two left
Alone in a field full of ravenous beasts
Of coprses waiting for the crows
Left to rot in some far flung land.
Their gaping snouts salivated
Waiting for the chance to sink their blades into our flesh.
A new emotion filled my veins.
I was no longer fighting for myself
To satisfy my lust for death
But for my kin standing next to me
The god made flesh

It was as we stood back to back
As I felt him stand firm against Fortuna’s whims
That I knew I was finally what I claimed to be
For Erasmos
My love
Has made me a greater man.

Blowing winds throughout the streets
Tweets that were nothing sweet
The moon becoming black within its own mist
The earth was turning as a revolting twist
Eerie voices at the stroke of midnight
Blood thirsting sip
Screams upon screams
The creed being the dead shall rise
Movement will be beyond anyone’s surprise
Fright within your tears
Your body shaking within its fears
Thunder shall roar
The living existence will become no more
No investigations to explore
The unrest rising from their tombs
The night to stork and an everlasting doom
The prancing bout in the moment of soon
The dead reliving in a rise in the occasion
The living fighting to live has become a strong indication
Do you have the armor to survive?
Are you the chosen one that will still be alive?
Run for your life
Don’t bother to think twice
It’s precision sharp as a tack
But don’t look back
No life sparred that can compare
I give you caution in your steps of beware
A moment alone we all share
Good night and sleep tight as your survive, but in the your presence is the vision of the soul of Sir Clive
Laughter could be heard that you won’t be alive
Only the strong shall survive.

Those four souls bright, they cantered forth
They came, they shook the land
They took their guns, and fired north
And seized death’s toll in hand
They wielded blades, they sparred away
With foes on silent shore
And it was but one gruesome day
That left them there, those four

To look upon with guises, grave
Their swords, with blood, hued red
“Why must we be but so deprave
To leave our foes in darkness dead
They’re just the same as just are we
With children that miss they
And every night, in misery
They yearn to live a day

Why must we be the ones of sin
Why must we shed in gore
Why must we come, immoral, win
We’re not to fight e’ermore
We don’t care if you sentence us
We’re not going to ****
Killing is moral’s bitter loss
For G-d and human will'

They assured me
the 15 inch blunt
fingerprint- free knife
was wielded
with the stealth element
of surprise
in the midst of a normal
Sunday afternoon
behind a closed office door
he  never  knew
what happened
just dropped down  
and died
my normal world
replaced by
a  true life  horror tale
my  knees
sparred  with gravity
while this   anvil of sadness  
squashed my heart  
wobbling  legs drove  me
mercilessly to  his
  serene good bye face
on a rolling table
with a sheet
up to
     his neck.

On a sweltering summer night, we met
Trifling, teasing in a soulful duet,      
Amidst the chaotic silent blur,
She could hear my metronomic heartbeat stir,
For her, now and forever.

Her slumber exhalation my love elixir,      
Her luxuriant ebony hair my midnight lair,
Her lank collarbone my chin’s night loan,
Her musk, feminine fragrance my own,    
All mine, now and forever.

Pillows cast aside and sheets strewed,
Yet nothing lascivious could be construed,
It was a night I didn’t want to come to an end,
For I knew it would be the final night I would spend,
With her, now and forever.

Her morning face more covetable than the night bygone,
As sunlight and I sparred to lay eyes on,
On her, now and forever.

A one night stand incompletely complete.
A one night stand like none before and ever after.

Once within the cavern,
Roughly hewn and carved,
I saw snow, falling lazy,
And overhead were stars.
They would glow and they would fade
and collide as if they sparred,
making show, and making play,
and then raining down in spark.
When my eyes tracked their way,
I saw a figure standing far.

Underneath the light's display,
it was my love they did bombard.

I ran to her at once,
under snow and starfall.
Though I roared with all my might,
she didn't seem to hear my call.
She faced an opening,
on this chamber's farthest wall,
with such a look upon her face,
as though a spell had her in thrall.
I followed her line of sight,
and froze at once at what I saw.
It was fear that held her rapt,
not magic, not at all.
There were creatures coming in,
and their features made me stall.

I freed my sword at once,
seeing malice in their make.
It seemed they had the skin
of frog, or pig, or snake.
They were sickly in their jaundice,
and a palsy made them shake.
Illness pallor in their tissue,
it was more than I could take.
Yet something in their outfit
pinned my vision with a stake:
The armor of my men
adorned these monsters, no mistake.
Had they killed the lot already,
and taken their breastplates?
How is it snow falls
with these Halflings in this place?
Why do they not attack?
What is that look upon that face?
Is that sadness mixed with terror?
I swallowed my distaste.

From behind me, I heard breath,
drawn in fitful pace.
At my back, my lady gripped,
seeking safety in embrace.
The dwarf before me spoke,
And my heart began to race.

This is not a poem, this is a story of a an 83 yr old man, that
got away with lying aboat his actual age, so he could box,
for the light weight Dallas County Iowa, championship.

"Howath is the name and these are my two knock out fists, Gerald
and Ron, and I'm here to sign up for the light heavy weight championship boxing title of Dallas County."

That was my official registration to the County boxing Commisson.
They of course ask me my age and some other questions related to
my boxing experience, to which I lied very convincingly.

By the way, the way to lie convincinly is to literally believe yourself what you are lying about. I had spent hours telling myself the lies I told the Boxing Commission, so they had no doubt about what I told them about my boxing experience. I even had some fake newspaper articles about my boxing experiences that I printed on my home printing press. I'll tell more about this later in this story.

What motivated me o do this, was the current chjampion was the
Grandson of one of my high school class mates that I detested, because h was such a proud blow hard, about every athletical thing
he did, from being a baseball pitcher, a running back football player,
a wrestler and on and on he bragged about himself. One time when
I could not somach his bragging and pompous ay he walked, I confonted him to his face, actually his chin, as that was as close to
his face I stood. He was aout 6' 4'' and I was slightly over 6'. I looked him in the eyes and told him I and every one else in school was sick
and tired of his bragging about himself.

He then sneared a me, reached down and gabbed me by the coller of my shirt, and said. "Why you little dumb pimpsqueet, you aint nothing but a hog raising farm boy!" and shoved me hard against
the hall way wall, so I smacked the back of  my head against it, and
knocked out for a few minutes, long enough for someone dumping a cup full of water on my face to bring me alert. Then ol blow hard
spread it around that I had attemped to hit him and he "just naturally" defended himself and gave me a little shove.

But back to the main part of this story, I had been working out in the city gym, workig on my cardio, thats my breathing. I had been keeping up with my physical condition all of my life, so for an 83 yr old man  I am in good physical shape. I have been punching the heavy bag on daily basis , and have had someone bouncing a heavy medicine ball on my stomach five minutes every day, so I have  those three muscle stand outs on my stomach, tht every body ooos and aaas about.

I also sparred with young boys around 20 and 30 years old, convincing them I was just 28, by my foot work and bobbing and weaving and left hand jabs. I still had a good head of hair, which I
had dyed a light black, which also convinced the boxing commission that I was 38, actually the year I was bornd, 1938

My boxing bout with the young grandson of this high school class mate that I detested, was suppoe to be just a warm up match for him, in preperation for a title fight. He was the Dallas County Light Heavy Weight champion defending his title against some unbeaten
opponant. My goal was to knock him out, and disqualify his title fight.

Oh yes, I neglected to mention my boxing manager, who was a young 62 year old retired boxer. He didn't grow up in
Dallas County, Iowa,  so he had no idea of my bckground age. He came from New York or New something.  I had him convinced that I was just 38 yrs old also. I grew up in a small town called Clive about 60 miles from Des Moines, were the fight was scheduld. Clive was a town with a population of around 2500 when I lived there. Most of the people who knew me are living under ground,
or in a old folks home, so the secret of my age will not be revealed.
,
This grandson of the school mate I detested, is just like his Dad, a smart mouth, bragging, pompous, cocky strutton show boat. He has no idea who I am, but has already started boasting about what he is going to do t me.

"Hey, I'm only 27 yrs old and this old man I'm fighting is 38 yrs old. Somebody will have to help him through the ropes to get in the ring." "What's an old man like him still thinks he is a boxer?

"He ought to be sitting on his back porch, watching the rabbits and squirrels hop around."

"He claims  to be 38 yrs old, I'll knock him out in 38 seconds in round 3."
   ,
He came to the gym when I was working out one morning to scout me out; I put on an act of being slow and winded.

He yelled at me from a few feet away, "Hey old man, my kid sister
has a faster jab then you. You sure you want to fight me?"

My manager walked up to him, and gave him a double arm shove
out the door, so hard he stumbled. "You big mouth punk, crawl
back in the skunk hole you came from."

                           The Big Fight

I was in the ring first, and was warming up wih litle dance steps I had had learned in a dance studio, which I intended to use on him, BTW  his name was Virgil Thornley, but he took pride in calling himself, "V T"=Very Tuff.

He was taking his time coming to get nto the ring,  and when he did decide to enter, he did so with a bunch of short skirted cheer leading girls dancing to loud music being played. When he approched the ring, two of the girls, squatted down on one knee and VT than made a big show of standing on each of their leg, and pushed himself off, tumbling over the ropes onto the ring apron.
amid 40,000 loud cheering fans.

"Enjoy it while you can VT, becaus in about 15 minutes, five three minute rounds, yu're gonna have 40,000 stunned fans looking at you, sprawled half way under the ring ropes, watchng the referee
waving the fight over."
                                ROUND ONE
JT came quickly to the center of the ring with a stupid looking
grin on is face, hands down, swinging back and forth at his waist level.

I took a couple steps towad him, then through him a big surprize,
that stopped him in his tracks. I did a little two step tap dance, and in the few seconds it took him to recover from surprize, I took a quick step toward him and shot out a left jab, purposly hitting
his right eye. Over my years of boxing experience, I developed a
fast twist at the end of the jab. This little twist would tear the skin
producing a cut in the eyebrow, which it did to VT. I don't think he had ever bee cut before by the way he wiped his eye, leaving his face unprotected, of which I took advantage, and smacked him with
another quick jab on his nose, drawing another spurt of blood.

VT wasn't expexcting such an early barrage of attack, and strted back peddling. Once again, I put on my little tap dance,
to a 40,00 applauding, whistling crowd of men, women and teen agers. By now ol VT had no idea what to do with me. He took a quick look over at his corner for help. And when he did I took a big step foward and planed to quick left jabs on each of his eyes.

I heard the fight annoncer telling the radio listners, he had never seen such a show boating boxer like  Howarth is putting
on. He has VT totally confused, not knowing what to do with
him. He came in to this fight as a warm up for his upcoming defensive championship fight with Scrapiron Peel and he is being bloodied and cut up, by what in the boxing sport is considered old, a man close to his 40's but is moving like a 25 or 26 year old. Folks I don't recall Howarth in any past fights, but uh, hang on a moment Howarth is moving around VT, bobbing, weaving and talking to him, I can't quite read his lips, but someting about going down in uh, some round. Meanwhile VT continues to back peddle away from Howath, who is trying to cut him off....Oh! now Howarth stops chasing him and motioned with his hands to come in and fight. There's the bell ending this third round.

There is some kind of commotion going on behind me.... some one wants to tell me something, but is being detained by the police.
Hey officers, let him talk to me. Folks, this is the crasiest night I have ever experienced, let's see what this old man, I'm serious about Old, He mst be  "Uh how old are you, sir?"

"I'm just a couple years younger than Howarth. We  grew up together in Perry, Iowa. I'm 81 years old and that old man in the ring, he was known as "Howie" is 83 years old and...."

"Hold on just jack rabbit minute! Are you telling me, that Howarth,
  what did you call him? Howie, that boxer in the ring,  beating VT, the current light weight Dallas County champion, is 83 years old? Is that what you are saying?"

"Yep, dats whot Im sayng.We growed up t'gether, in da same school t'gether, wrestled and boxed t'gether, and I'm 81 years old and he was alays 2 yars older'n me, so I knows he is 83 yars old.

Folks., getting back to the igh, VT is circuling to his right to get in position to throw is left hook and then is righ overhand knock ut puncht . I think Howie is aware of what VT is trying and keeps circing to his left.


This is the  the round Howarth bragged he would KO VT. VT is coming out in his usual swagering way, Howarth had him intimiated in the first four rounds, with his little dancing jig and blooding his nose and eye. VT wasn't use to that kind of pressure, but his corner manager and some others that joined him, gave him a little pep talk, and so he has regained his cofidence. As usual Howarth, trys his little tap dance aa he approaches VT, it's gotten a little much and no one is cheering it.

I failed to ask you, old man, your name"

"I was known as Scrapieon in Perry, my real ame isRichard Peel.
Yo said dis is da round Howie is going to lower da boom on this young feller?"

"Well that's what he told the fight reporters in the news paper. But frankly, I have doubts that he can do it. Thus far all I've seen from your friend is  a few left jabs. He hasn't used his right in the entire fight."

"Well you just keep your eyes on his right; what yor going to see is a flurry of left jabs, ad out of nowhere his right and will suddenly show up and that will be the end of the fight."

Well folks there is just three minites left i thos round, if Howie is going to KO VT, he is ging tp alf to get more agressie than, oh,Howie just connected with a double left jab, and another one and he had VT weak leggedfromma barrage of jabs. He looks like he is about to go down OH WOW Howie hit him with a straight right hand punch right between his eyes and VT is on the canvas, tryng too ge up, the count is up to 5, 6,7 VT was up at the cnt of 8 bt collapst. The referee is waving the figt over, and tne Dallas County  light heavy weight champion has been kocked out by Howie Howarth in the 5th round just as he predicted.

I was hiking in the woods
I saw a bear in my presence from where I stood
I couldn’t move if I could
My first instinct was to run
Then I thought I would be out done
But at this point this wasn’t a game of being fun
I didn’t move fast as I didn’t want to confuse the bear
But at the same time I didn’t want the bear to come near
I tried to reason and you better believe with care
Every tense moment was an eye on eye of beware
The bear was hungry and saw I had food
Yet my food was in my bag and I didn’t want to be a fool
Suddenly the bear started to roar
Being in the woods, this was no time to explore
I felt this was a good time to move
There was absolutely nothing for me to prove
I spotted a lake with the bear on my trail
I had a plan and I knew it couldn’t fail
I maneuvered quickly through the lake
It was careful steps in the take
The bear then decided it would hesitate
But I was prepared in anticipate
A situation that could have happened
But my life was sparred
I could breathe in the wood’s fresh air
An encounter being face to face
Quick thinking with no time to waste
I was able to continue with my hike
My experience told me not to create a plight.

it seems so much noble to be called a jihadi, than to be called a "mentally ill" westerner; call these men by their cultish extremity names, call them crusaders, the barons of the cross, but don't mix secularism into the mix! psychiatric designation will only get you so far along the tribal wave of reaction, you can't keep it contained in a parliament of witches and poncy warlocks who can't summon a black to their bidding, then getting two english girls safely home, after one approaches you emerging from the deathly hollows of a darkened public park, rolling her a cigarette, looking at her cleavage, and then searching for her friend, lying face down on the pavement, offering her your hoodie.

and i do read **** literature,
heidegger,
you know, i once had an irish friend,
but then he despised that i was
of pedigree breed,
although not of cognitive pedigree...
and he hated it,
being quarter indian, half irish,
and i don't know what the other quarter
came from...
   he just said: you best be among
your people - to which i replied:
but i am!
    22+ years in england,
the **** have i in common with
the pollocks?
         a ******* attempt at painting?
didn't work, kept his marker,
what ****** me off was that his
shamrock stupendous chose
   a cypriot for a friend...
and while an old boxing fan joined
us for drinks once time,
while i nipped off to the gents
i came back, and the ol' ****** was
gesticulating:
you wanna say what you said
about him outloud?
  sticking his index into his nose
imitating a boxed case of a punch...
the supposed "fwend"?
  sat there, knee jerking, playing
air drums...
               and then he comes up with:
better stick with your kind?
kind of what? mongrel?!
  you're a ******* mongrel,
how about you kiss a melting candle,
******* *******.
       we sparred once, i guess he was
gearing up to a big fight with me,
lest he forget i too practice boxing:
on my own face...
    if i get to punch myself out:
i'm a winner...
i waited for a day, 2 day came and i
could finally, finally! feel the punches
on my jaw...
  20+ years in england and i'm supposed
to make fwends with the 2004 tide
of immigrants? you have to be kidding me,
i don't have any friends back "home"...
what am i, scurvy shamrock?
         if this is what integration of
whites among whites ends up being:
    thank you, i'll take the curry recipe
and *******, leave you two gents deciding
who's to blame...
     times of conquest and the prize-woven
artefact of women has just sailed
on the titanic...
     i just read heidegger...
like any philosophy book, esp. ones prone
to aphorisms, you read the same book
x3, in one sitting...
           aphorism 64 ponderings VI...

history has become the annihilation of time
(24h news reels) -
   and by aphorism LXV -
it has become a concern to annihilate space -
which is a paradoxical statement
with cf. *dasein...
  if we are to break away from the relativism
of a space-time compound, and break from
this suggested continuum,
we must break away from relativism altogether,
and enter the realm of absolutism,
whereby time & space are once more
parallel, or so divergent, that the next
convergence (X) of the two can happen a long
time into the future...
  it would seem that relativism has outlasted
its best-before date of "fascination",
once more, the return to absolutism,
   given the anti-philosophical convergence
of medicinal dichotomy into a dualism:
the unison mind = body = mind...

     and as in LXIV, VI,
we do live in an age without questioning -
we seem to be living in an age of only acquiring
answers, facts, there is an absolutely lack
of acquiring questions!
     questions are a medium of expressing inquiry
lost to what could be best riddle in a novel,
whereby pronoun "neutrality" is best given
the following extract:

? walked into the bathroom, and peered into
the mirror.
    whether in shock, or in awe, ? replied
as a mime might: ?!
                         to which the reflection replied
of its own mechanisations: !

and you might inquire: the **** is this?
a quote from casablanca, with bogart doing his:
here's looking at you kid?

the out-shouted anxiety in the face of
the question-worthiness of being (heidegger)...

who the hell wants to live in a world that's
only governed by the safeguarding
of a cascade of mere answers?
  this is a **** party member, in the 1930s...
writing this sort of prophetic usherance
of the times we live in, now!
    i, for one, know that i don't live in
a world of worthy questions,
   or questions at all...
  i live in a world where knowledge is trivia!
i live in a world where there is no
gain from knowing something,
but merely guessing at it, or making fun
of it: i.e. gambling!
      
this world is not worth the speedy congratulatory
*******-up to sycophancy by comparing
it to the previous days,
let us forget taking to history in relative terms,
let us take to absolute terms,
          no time according to this one was
any worse, or any better,
that's as much relativism as we're going to
ingest...
   but i can't expect to find myself in questioning
times, i find myself in pompous
constantly answering times,
            there's about as much awe in these
times, as there's surprise in a soft boiled egg
with a runny yoke...
     no!
          it has become harder and harder to
find the right question to craft a momentum,
than what already is the right answer,
that simply stalls all wishes for momentum;
time to look for the question,
rather than regurgitate all the "necessary" answers.

All around me were revolving doors, thousands of them, but somehow, she found me. Or maybe I found her. Fire ravaged my soul like indigenous lands but still I trusted god, put my knees in the dirt and asked for a love so strong it could soothe a blaze, stop a war.

I needed love to bathe me in a crepuscular light then send me
giddily running to the moon. I needed a love that had my nose
and eyes and lips. I stood in pools of tears seeing migrant
children be reunited with their parents, cameras cocked and aimed like guns ready to capture the crime scene they created. Colored bodies filled prisons and the earth. They needed love too.

Thank the baby blue heavens for her. She appeared one February amid a terrible time, casually strolled over to me like death to disease-ridden soldiers. The water in the air sparred with the crispness of a fading winter, a doldrum that could only be killed by springtime beauty clashed with my Capricorn/I-can’t-help-that-I-need-to-feel-productiveness, a tyrant fighting any faint sign, plan, idea, microscopic bacteria of progress.

We’ve both cut ourselves open and tasted our own blood. Brown eyes sunken from seeing/feeling/being too much. But this love could be salvation. With every kiss planted and every crevice found, I feel seen. With her, my body is not theirs, not a battleground but sacred land. When she takes me into her mouth like holy communion, I know she’s worth the sacrifice.

We lie together, dark-skinned limbs so intertwined, respiratory systems so in sync we could be one. They demonize us the same anyways. I hear sirens and protests but it’s soft, like hushed turbulence. The sound of her heart beating as fast as mine was louder. Our hands clasped like we were still praying for each other, for the world.

Finches started
Bluebirds out chirped the Robins
Sparrows watching the squirrels for a chance at their left overs
The bird and wildlife symphony began
Sparrows sparred with feral cats
Good Morning, Saturday!

C@rainbowchaser2021

Going your way
At least for today
Harry the Turkey was trying a getaway being escape
But he was on an island known for the first name as Cape
So Harry ventured out
The thought of Thanksgiving is what Harry was talking about
Every year a possibility of the ax
But it was a known fact
So 2017, Harry decided to hitchhike
But will it turn into a plight?
So Harry is thumbing for a ride on Highway 18
Harry wanted to make sure he was seen and not hide
So a truck happened to stop, but wait?
It was an animal meat slaughtering truck
What luck?
Would Harry become the star attraction on Thanksgiving Day?
Well as luck had it, Harry would be sparred and not be slaughtered
So the getaway was on
The ride to the mainland was long
It was that hound bus being the get a long
A new refreshing breathing life
No one has to give Harry advice
An oven Harry will stay out
Let’s celebrate and shout
On the Dinner table on Thanksgiving, Harry will be out
But too some unhappy family, I see a pout
Butterball Turkey in victory
You got my story being Harry’s glory.

Glorified and Mystified
Liked and Loved by all
Worshipped by fans
Of Martial arts and films
Facts and Memes
Every Mans dream

Black Belts
Dan and Beyond
Multiple Styles
Ahead by Miles

Heavy Middle Light
Weight class to fight
Opponents none on par
Set high the bar

Champion of the World
Tournament a loop
Outcome similar
Title familiar

Professional fighter
6 time World beater
Held the Champion title
World record Still
No easy slot to fill

Laconic and Shy
Bullied by every  guy Routinely insulted
Ran home everyday
Avoid being humiliated

Law of nature
Cause of plight
Own nature
Cause of more plight
Stand before class and read
Very thought made face go Red

Alcoholic father
Abusive in nature
Job never secure
Family made to wander


Constantly on the move
Friends none bar one
Roots to a community none
Damage to self done


Raised by Women
To conquer men
Mother and hers
Values and Attitude
Lessons in Positivity
Subconscious mind
Weeded out negativity

Karate Triple Crown
Was his to be worn
2 times in a row
Had to make way
By being away
Others could make a claim
To wear the same

Taekwondo in Korea
Judo at the base
Dedication and Passion
Rigorous and tough
Relentless in pursuit
Blood Sweat and Time
Black Belts Dan  Nine
Time at base
Turning phase
Identified inner strength

Friendship with Bruce Lee
Axis of change  was to be
Sparred at his home
Co Starred in Rome.

Way of the Dragon
****** at the Coliseum
Last film on the location
Viewer attained Salvation
Battle with Lee
Global phenomenon
Body mind Soul
Shocked and Awed
Alpha Males inferior
Sidelined forever
Never has Gods creation
Been this close to perfection
Captured imagination
Audience Worldwide
Had never witnessed
Fight of Epic proportion

Bit by the acting bug
Student and Superstar
Steve McQueen
Helped Channel the dream
By encouraging to try
The acting profession
For which he
Had a longing

As an actor
Classes to master
Films as lead
Kick started career

Roundhouse kicks
Cash registers tick
Pinnacle of fame
Household name
Action and Drama
Comedy and fantasy
Focused on quality

Name above the Title
Cinema Halls Full
Across Continents
Rising in rank
End if each films run
Millions in the bank

Signed to star
Showcasing Martial art
Action series
First of its kind
Cordell Walker
Texas Ranger

9 Seasons on the box
Prime time slot
Hyperkinetic  Yarn
Blitzkrieg Action
Showcasing talent
Record viewership
Rating remained
At the top
Over 100 nations saw
Kicks punches and guns draw
Wanted more
There was a line to draw

Foundation founded
Kick Drugs the focus
Street kids to Karate
Millions benefiting
Streets staying clean
A long time dream
Children under care
Wonders for America

Test of Popularity
Bridge in Hungary
That's another story
Require another poetry

Won every poll
Most recognized face
Same for the name
Movie or TV
Always at the
Top of his game

High up in the Party
As a Republican
Naturally for a Texan
Committed to the cause
Refused posts of power
Believes that inner

Biggest Cult hero
Of all time
Proclaimed the magazine Time
Internet Generations
Global sensation
One thing he never asked for
Has to thank Ian Spector

The book of facts
Social media Behemoth
30 million hits a day
Contributed by all
16000 and coming
Funny and relevant
4 Volumes of Bestsellers
Millennials are also followers

Epitome of Confidence
Example for Humility
Known for Hospitality
Treats all equally
The greatest human quality
Love towards humanity
Symbol of Positivity

Soldier Fighter
Actor Writer  Rancher
Producer Teacher
Martial Artist Philanthropist
Novelist Reformist

Lead a  quality life
Overcome obstacles
Be an example
Have Character
Help the poor
Share your Skills
Against All Odds
Optimize inner strength
Power of within
All the above
In One  Man
Lucky we are
To live in the
Same era

The name is
CARLOS RAY NORRIS
who for all of  us is
Dearest  CHUCK
Founder CHUN KUK DO

Perhaps we rushed into each other’s arms too quickly--
Hungry for details, thirsting for trivia--this and that about each other.
But there we were. Feeding, nourishing, filling, digesting
Each other.

We, who were once joined by umbilical cord, were now joined by heart.
Laughter, warmth, belongingness, became a part of us in a joyful way.
In spite of the missing years that severed and shaped us,
We renewed and embellished each other with our love.

Then a sinister something loomed on our landscape.
First tiny pins pricked, then knife wounds laid us bare, as
We sparred in each other’s minds, frolicked in each other’s fields,
Not knowing they were laced with mines of our own making.

We began to step carefully, then recklessly, through the mined fields.
And we collected the damaged pieces of ourselves as though they were
pennies carelessly tossed aside, keeping score:
Who had the most pennies ? Who was winning, losing?

Hearts were sacrificed in that field, like so much chaff.
Words became weapons.
Love became indifference.
We became unrecognizable to each other.

Then suddenly the lightning, the chilling lightning, struck.
It lit the anger and the fear; it melted the solemn promise:
"I will never leave you."
The cold brilliance of it forced the injured child-mother to her knees--
Crouching, spitting, clawing. Screaming. Alone.

Gingerly crawling toward each other in the fog that settled on them like death,
Mother and child, with fragile hope and wounded love,
Tried to touch, to reach, to restore what was lost.
But clouded eyes and darkened hearts kept them from seeing each other and
Who they once were.
Who they were now.

Akin a tumbleweeds  
aimlessly blowing in the wind
umlaut punctuation
courtesy of let herd Mother Nature
nsync with markie mark,

(or other faux nuke heads
on silent auction
ajudicating bidding chopping block)
or getting sparred
sum xtra mo' mints

before morphing into gamut
tuff height (against opposing
super cross currents)
bow willing head over heals

deftly thwarting encroaching
enfilade enhancing
invading army of deplorable
dust devilish debris
with full Stanley steamer ahead onslaught

opposing approaching phalanx
ta become a foo lush fighter
putting kibosh
across the infinitely open
and wide prairie land

(which wasteland fictitiously
epitomized and described by T.S. Elliot
with absolute zero relevancy here)
a barren vista ravages
metaphorical landscape

of one measly mortal malcontent male
bumping and scraping
along an accursed habiliment
just barely avoiding
and dodging diabolical demons

mercilessly unrelentingly ready
to ****** this somewhat sanguine Simian
who finds himself amidst pitfalls
of a tortured and twisted existence

racked with up pinions
(halving smartly put irons in the fire)
deployed incognito
tub hest describe demonic dungeons
damp, dark, demented domains -
a veritable no man's land

and one impossible to escape
from no matter how fast I flee
from the fearful, fiercesome
and phantasmagoric forms

figments of imagination
yet real and tangible as bone and flesh
haunt sacred house of slumber
and transmogrify me
into a loathsome madman

ranting and raving senseless
gibberish and gobbledygook
yet perceived as metaphysical
and philosophical
sane state farm mister soundcloud
syllabification stutterer

from one whoa man
World Wide Web wayfarer
(perchance yourself)
which virtual vagabond
venerates vowels

and possesses means
and tees to till verse
akin to a sorceress
who waves magic wand

to produce such supreme sentences
and weaves tantalizing
terrific topographic tundra's
that this admirer of her artful
and colorful poetic endeavors

prompts him to accompany
Gaia as thought-provoking troubadour
amidst the information
super byways and highways

along winding labyrinths
of critical thinking
or simply stepping cobble stones
comprising silly
rhymes without reason

all the while giving subtle egress
into that chamber of secrets
long kept shut tight
to maintain sure footed
stance of solitude,

whose only entities happen
to constitute trappings
of literary lugubriousness
those tombs of largesse identified
as great works and master
pieces of literature,

yet careful to avoid complete intimacy
lest cherished 100 years of solitude
shattered and heart rent asunder
twin perils of loss provide
an understandable cautionary tale

from author of this rambling missive
a most profoundly perceptive
and acute Ape man
touched to the quick
with a bit of angel dust

and aware this agonized
angst riddled arboreal beast
contents himself with
the confines of cyberspace.

Come and sit by the fireplace
Follow me into a storytale of royalty that will surprise you in your face
The spoken story is about a King and Queen of Featherson Castle
It also involves a Joker who would often entertain
The story behind the Joker, we will let that just remain
Let’s just say not in this domain
Now King Jack and Queen Mary were superior sitting on the throne
They let their powers being known
Once a man started to rebel
He shouted to the King and Queen being his tell
One thing you don’t do is go against anarchy
It is treason and is a solid creed
It is enforced strongly indeed
The Guards brought the man in front of the King and Queen
Now King Jack and Queen Mary were quite angry and distraught
Who are you to relish against us?
You the penalty is Death, and your tongue could be cut off
The man responded, “Do what you wish as I have lived through harsh conditions of anguish of cruel torment”
The man spoke for himself and the community
In fact, there was no unity
The man was his own testimony with a jury of none
Some how the King and Queen listened to the man with interest
Thoughts above in thinking
Perhaps we were taking our authority too far in being harsh
The man’s life was sparred
King Jack and Queen Mary changed the treasons
Cheers rang out from the surrounding town peoples
A happy ending indeed
The story closes with no need to further proceed
I see you have fallen asleep
The story is your soul to keep.

I would not understand
your fabric, when you come
wearing only smile.

The politics of life was beyond
my poetry. I only have the words
as my wealth. No other assets.

I wanted more space
between the black holes. My earth
needs a rebirth. I am very lonely.

Poison poems. You always
sparred with a family of weighting
heights, which could not touch the sky.

A series of serial killers,
were ready to begin the assault
on the tossing daffodils, deaf, dumb and blind.

I wish I had
The armor you keep on your heart
I would not have to worry
About Cupid’s shots
Like shooting stars
That I wish I could wish upon
But no
Arrow after heart shattering arrow
Leaving my chest
Tender and full of holes
And those holes
If they were to heal
I wish created thicker skin
To not let the same voids
Be made again
But instead I find
The feather ends
Sticking out
Making my love hideous
Like highway roadkill
Dare not look
Dare not touch
Dare not acknowledge
For I wish your feelings sparred
But yet I yearn for the day
That someone comes around
And love this mangled heart