The Prizefighter

Ascending
with an extra spring in his step.
The Prizefighter heads upstairs
To bed
Alone.
But with a scent of victory on the lips
And sweat behind the ears.

Tonight’s victory was seized
By hands and feet that still
Ache with every battle
That came before it.
That ache, dulled now
Will return.
The Prizefighter knows this.

Now though
Now is the time to revel
In the afterglow
Of another night
When modesty is left for
The con-men
And hopeless romantics.

It is then and there
That he knows
He is invincible
He is untouchable
It is with this that he smiles
At that big empty bed.

Meaningless meanings

The folowing is an excerpt from my correspondence.

My fingernails have a length and grime about them that is in itself a testament to the last ten days spent on the road. There seems to be an extra amount of resilience imbedded in each nail, as if the culmination of experiences that were fashioned with or recorded by each tip, acted as some sort of ‘essential mineral’ that aids in strength. You know, like all the other essential minerals and vitamins that never seem to cause you any problems until you read about them while waiting in line at the grocery store. This may be true, but it could just be that I’m still fighting tooth and nail to avoid reality, and the weight of a Monday that lies just around the corner. In my fight to fend off reality on this motha-fuckin’ humid Sunday, I have armed myself with a combination of some of the finest tools the creature of man has in his arsenal. A box fan roars in one corner to fight off the heat, while a cold beer has my flank. My trusty pipe is within reach of my trigger finger at all times, and a reserve of left over pizza from the night before is warming in the toaster oven. Large headphones encompass my ears so that nothing but the abstracted recycled video game sounds of Crystal Castles, and my tormenting tinnitus, are allowed on that channel. I’m now just hunkering down to write you, and take my mind away from the thought traps that ensnare the idle in the calm before the storm, the storm of a big Monday battle back into reality. Coffee will be my weapon of choice for the offensive that will be necessary to make it to Tuesday. But that is tomorrow, and for the present I’m just going to sit behind this wall of defenses and write to you.

Voicemails need to be checked, emails erased, laundry to wash, but those will be tended to in time. Writing to you has bubbled up the priority ladder, but don’t feel too special, for I’ll probably use excerpts of this text in a posting about my feelings after this road trip. Of course I’ll also have to excerpt this very paragraph, just to show what a self aware prick I can be! Woo Hoo!!

I will not take the time to string out all the details of the trip. I will save those for the proper time and place when I can wave my hands about wildly and grapple your attention with the proper vocal inflections. Something I’m much better at while recalling a personal story off the cuff, but not so much when I’m trying to read a book out loud. Lovecraft, no less. Something I learned about myself on this trip, but I’m just trailing off on a tangent. Where was I? … Oh yes, the details will be saved for another time. I just wanted to express some thoughts and feelings that have molded themselves in the mind upon my return.

I find myself entertained by thoughts and ideas on the topic of “meaning”. Did this trip have a meaning, or better yet, what meaning will I eventually construct for it? That will only come with time, and I’m okay with that. It is not this very trip’s meaning that I’m interested in, but the idea of trying to fashion a meaning itself. How do I go about this? It seems like an automatic process, one which we rarely step back from to look at. We already have to step back from all the finite details of the trip itself in order see it as ‘one’ event with which we can try to attempt to adhere a meaning to. But I want to step back even further, and take note on just how I decide to organize and sort all the experiences and emotions from such a trip. How did the vague expectations prior to leaving mix with the then present reality of the trip, and how does that mixture settle and cool on the window sill of hindsight?

I am afraid I’m putting the cart before the horse, for I have yet to even decide upon a meaning, if any, with which to deconstruct from or reverse engineer if you will. I not even sure if I could construct a proper meaning, if all the while I’m always on my own heels in search of a reason behind the meaning, and the subsequent meaning of that reason. Two steps forward, and one step back. So goes the slow dance through life.