The GOAT

Winfield, a la Ali

A sight to behold-

still bobbing and weaving, "like he's 18 years old"

though young Foreman pushes him,

back against the ropes,

and in his 10th round now

with back pain he copes,

But he takes each jab,

each verbal hook,

And uses the rope-a-dope:

"Go read my books!"

Then one fine day,

the young pugilist decides to obey.

Quite out of the blue, and into the grey.

Of reading the fine print of books and essays.

The fighters had close family ties,

And Foreman would interview Ali over lunch,

But when he picked up, "Why I am So Wise,"

Ali knocked him over with a mighty punch.

something happened then-
I felt it
many miles away
in a foreign land.
but it was too late to know what or how,
or why
I woke up that dawn
to the whispers of a magician
instead of staying comatose.
ancient statues lose their noses overnight
and I was carved without irises
and I was stuck without Osiris'es
most precious blessing...

It was there... although it didn’t know it.

When the fishermen used to cross, they would remark to themselves on how quiet it was.  It was not like other rivers that in some parts trickled like and in other parts raged- those ones would foam with the fury of ancient gods- with the repetition of divine eagles pecking at the liver of Prometheus they would foam and foam and foam again.  And it was those rapids that would claw away at the hulls of their humble watercrafts, toss them against the jagged edges of the riverbeds, and have them spar with the rocks.  But this river, they could put their faith in.
Some of the village folks who lived on the banks of the rough rivers would in the passion of boisterous youth challenge the liquid demons upon their rafts.  Though it was often the case that wood and sinew proved too tenuous a question for the bellowing response of watery might.  And when they failed, the foam would consume them like the last morsel of prey in the salivating mouth of a predator.  The gentle river, though, would not change its course- it kept flowing as it always had.
This river would transport the villagers away from their hamlets and deeper into the jungle where their livelihoods could be found.  They would laugh and joke as they rowed and sometimes the older villagers would retell legends that they had heard when they were young.  Their stories often followed the formula of a young man stumbling into the path of a panther and wrestling it down single-handedly for survival.  Every so often, tho, the eyes of an elder would gleam as a tale of the great chief sailing down the frothy currents in battle with one of the mighty rivers would come into memory.  And their river would calmly float them on their merry way as the youngsters listened in awe.  It did not interrupt their conversation- it only sought to soothe them with its gentle hum.  Its soft splooshing dampened the terrifying uncertainties of the jungle.
It was full of the fish that villagers ate and traded with neighboring settlements.  The river didn’t mind having the fish occupy its waters; it liked caring for them.  When schools of the scaly creatures would swim up and down, it would please the river.  The villagers would spear these fish, and the blood from the wounds would mix with the water.  But the river knew this was part of life, and her current would make sure the blood would quickly mix away.  

The Racist Druggie type(d)

 muse,

return to your dwelling of old,

sweep away the moss, mildew, mold

remember not, but forge ahead,

and tell the greatest story ever told

goodbye, my friend.

i forgot about us in the end

loving her left no space

for you

but your trace

endures in the flashes

of your endearing lashes

your slashes

i couldn't absorb

maybe you died lying on the floor

writhing in sanity

we lost a good one

anyone who knew you would agree

but who among us could have held the honor

to know someone so free

Isness...wasness

 what's missing? it's hard to know, really. maybe everything is here, with me, and always was. I'm just deluded. why do I still think of her? do I really need her in my life? there are many people out there. how to find the right ones. or one. 

what if she was me and I am her. why the separation? I wish I could travel like the wind. leave my body and float. I'm the caged bird she used to be. my nerves are my prison. 

memory. just a memory. causing me this turmoil. do I even believe in ghosts? present moment. the present. why can't I stay here? and now? no worries, no fear I can't handle. 

One-Fifth Avenue Party in Someone Else's Own House

 the birdsongs rearranged the delicate chords in my throat, gentle as a breeze, and I lay there in union with the wisdom of nature. we all evolved together and now the flocks in the sky were healing me. my weary feet jolted with shooting energy, the excitation of long-dormant muscles plus sighing relief for the ones that had been holding me up all on their own. a smarter body through cosmic teamwork. the sun was coming up before my moon had dipped and I ran from myself. what else do I ever do?

ByeGoneDays

 Hello. You again?

Yes.

Tell me one thing now will you. Who's running the show?

What do you mean- you are. Didn't you know? You aren't serious, are you?

I looked up to him ferociously.

I sucked the color right out of his hair

She has seen my fate. and she approves

he is stuck here, clinging to himself out of fear. he is blind to the world and the world is blind to him. "another one of these nutjobs. oh well, we'll get him fixed right up, take away his pain."

the boy (unborn) watches it all transpire. the fight, the yells, the tears, the violence. save me, he says.