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