“It’s Clobberin’ Time!!”

The poet takes off the gloves,
stands in front of the Void, his
taped hands assume the stance,
weight on the back foot, Eroica,
first movement, blaring from the
loudspeaker in his brain, adrenaline
rush strains his tendons to near
snapping…he remembers the taste
of his own blood….

…strangely alone…all challenges
already met…enemies defeated…
down time…denouement…even all
the victory parades…if there were any
…lost in excelsior of skin deep memory,
passion ashes, corpse poses, theatrical stance,
a “was it ever!” and a sigh that brings
the curtain down.

I will forget myself.
What connection will
my poems have to me then?
(that’s the Void connecting
with a right hook)

Whatever connection my readers have
to my poems now,
they will have to me then.

For me, the poems are always there.

(the poet wipes his face with a towel,
cracks a beer... )