Boxing

Is there a physicist present to present the physics behind a metaphorical knockout? How the kinetic energy of an eloquent sentence grows as it escapes? How it begins deep in the catacomb of some cortex and is then born– delivering a crushing blow of brain blood to the skull?

Here, look my pen is poised to leave scars of ink across the tired, pale faces of trees that used to be. How it dodges insecurity’s padded punches. In the corner, I throw scribbles like a southpaw. Perhaps if I circle ’round the rings of my notebook fast enough, my thoughts will lose their gold bar heaviness. The time for an exchange of clumsily-crafted currency with the blank page has passed.

With fists closed, grip tight, I’m training for powerful lines, for sequences of syllables that crack bones like champagne. Here I am, just one of many boxers; shifting my weight beneath the scalding bath of white spotlight, holding court with the roaring crowd between my ears, words blooming around my sockets like green-yellow shiners.  My thoughts itching and hungry in their gloves. I’m up against the ropes, dreaming of a brilliance that leaves bruises.

 

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