(Thinking of convos with my students and how some folks feel that personal experience is all you need when struggling against historical, social, and cosmic forces of violence, exploitation, and death)
The pugilist perceived persistence pouring precipitously from the fastidious frown fastened and fixed upon the face of his foe.
The jabs stung like alliterative bees. Rights and lefts.
His phaser wasn’t set to stun. He was looking for a knock-out in a fight that had no ending he could perceive.
A fool’s errand.
Rights and lefts.
The fists of his adversary tenderized and seasoned his face with pepper, paprika, and salt… And garnished his wages like parsley and lemon zest.
But he kept looking for a knock-out in a round with no ending, in a bout with no discernible terminus, in a weight class he could never match.
He went to the fight alone. With no trainer. With no Mickey. With no Apollo. With no Rocky. With no mentor. He went to a cosmic fight with no intercessor. With no asteroids for gloves. He went to history with no ancestral narrative. With just his personal, individualistic, atomic, dollar-dollar bill y’all self. He fought quasars with his bare knuckles.
His phaser wasn’t set to stun. It was set to level 5. But he forgot to pack his deflector dish.
Right. Left. Alliterative bees found his face to be the sweetest of hives. Surely, his body should become a repository for the nectar of domination.
Right. Left. Body blow.
He’s Dom Flamenco, and his persistent opponent pummels and puts (up) A B A B A B A B on his jaws.
Shimmy shimmy ya shimmy yeah shimmy back to the corner…
Get up before the 8 count.
But epic mathematics tell no lies.
He jumped out of hyperspace too close to Hoth. He tried to ice-skate uphill. He tried to negotiate with Agent Smith. He pitched his tent with Moe Green. He lived in Osgiliath. He was Mack and the Spirit of Predation spoke a language he cared not to understand. Long tall Sally, look so sweet. She got everything, Uncle John need! Oh, baby! I’mma have me some fun… I’mma have me some fun…
Martin, meet the glove of Tommy “Hitman” Hearns. D-Von, get the tables. What did the five fingers say to the face?
He dropped his phaser. Backed away… A smirk emerged from his face of craters. He was one with the moon, orbiting around a planet that wasn’t his own but still his home.
He dropped his gloves. There was no referee.
That’s Clubber Lang with black holes and supernovas for hands. With tsunamis for toes and comets for feet. With lightning for a mohawk and stalagmites for a goatee. With chaos in his left eye and avarice in his right. With nuclear fission as cell division.
Don’t count Mario. Just make the call.
Let the reader understand…
©2016 M. J. Sales