Dementia
Pugilistica
Pounding
away with aching fists,
he stands before a
taped
and tattered heavy bag,
and there mid-flurry,
thinks
to himself,
"I will die fighting."
And
this somehow
brings him comfort.
That
his knuckles flash forth
to
slam into bag
is
not so much an effort to
send
them out from innermost being,
but
rather that the bag pulls them in.
As
if his fists were lumps of iron
and
there at the bag's core
exists
an irresistible magnet.
There
an invite to hate, and
what
is he if not
unleashed?
To
damage.
To
be destructive.
This
was never about
the act of creation,
for
to create would imply
the intent to benefit others;
that
others might flourish
from
the fruit of his efforts.
But no.
That
is not him.
He
was always one to
tear
things down;
to rip things up;
to knock things over.
To
sling axe and drop a tree
was
always preferred to
the
sink of nail;
the
rise of wood;
the
sheen of polished grain.
That
which brings the rage.
For
what is the application of varnish
if
not submission
to
some excepted ideal?
What
is the ultimate act of survival
if
not a smashed and splintered chair?
Everything
as tinder for the flame.
"I
will die fighting."
And
such becomes his mantra.
A
repeat petit mal of the soul.
A
daily validation for self-immolation.
The
wrapping of hands.
The
donning of gloves.
The
dip of a vasalined head
as
it ducks beneath rope
into
a four-squared ring.
The
Ring.
The
ring of the bell and its
blissful
invite to execution.
Death
in convenient segments,
each
defined end to end
by
some siren peel of steel.
"I
will die fighting."
Getting
hit while giving it.
This
was his modus operandi.
This
his subtle strategy.
He
was not a boxer. No.
Nothing
so senseless as sport.
Forever
stepping to his demise,
everything
he threw
was
meant to bring
the
end of the world.
And
instead
it
brought him constellations;
collapsing
galaxies;
a
Milky Way maelstrom of ill-lumination
swirling
away just before
his
punch-drunk eyes.
Concussed.
The
bruise to the brain.
Its
momentary blackout.
Synapses
in mass, all reset to zero.
And
yet... And
yet the ability to
step
forward when asked to.
To
have your name ready
when
the question comes.
This
was his one true talent.
Eleven
times seven equals seventy-seven.
Sure.
He
acknowledged that there were others
who
could compute this by
merely
using their minds,
but
how did this compare to
being
able to correctly state your name
at the end of an eight-count?
No
one cheers when some
certified
accountant
puts
the books in black,
yet
there three foot above concrete,
where
blood oozes forth upon canvas
to mingle with the past,
what
is he if not someone to look up to?
A
Journeyman.
A tomato can.
An also ran.
A
professional palooka.
"I
will die fighting."
Of
course its important
to have goals.
"Say!
Saw you fight last night!
Ya
didn't go down 'til the final round.
Yep.
You sure can take a punch.
One hell of a brawl!"
And
ever the fighting cock,
he
raises hands and assumes a stance—
though
the only pose
they
ever wanted from him
was
best defined as
white
outline upon asphalt.
And
he says, "Thanks. Thanks.
It means a lot."
Then
finishes off with his catchphrase:
"I
will die fighting!"
And
everyone chuckles.
He,
such a character.
Just
what character can you attribute
to
a punching bag?
One
of so many suspended from chain.
One
of many with layer upon
layer of
duct
tape wrapped about it.
There
dragging out the abuse
'til
the day its guts
spill
out upon floor.
And
what is the character
of
this bag before him now?
This
bag which exists
if
only to absorb a certain rage.
And
he who stands before it,
seeing
in it… himself.
He
who has known such hate.
Such
hate as to make fists ache.
Yet
what would it be to
deny
enduring pain,
if
not to give in
to
a certain death?
©2012
Jack Hubbell
