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120 Testament of the Oldest White Belt at the Tae Kwon Do Tournament And, as the fight goes on for centuries, a whole Middle Ages of creaky tendons, shoulder pain and faulty prostates, Dark Age of crusades and iron maidens and the always-present threat of the Black Death, what’s to come seems no better, inquisitions and pogroms and the death of God, but still he’s kicking back with dead-weight legs, trying to get in combos, to breathe, dodge or even just keep his fists up, and he does, though it hurts, he kicks death right in her narrow black teeth, because instead of resting his face against the kitchen linoleum and wanting to die, staring at the dead ants below the refrigerator, after the divorce he learned how to fight in matches that have done something to time, so they don’t seem to end, like the longest sentence in the world, punctuated with elbowed shins, kicked wrists and rib-kicks, fighting other dudes with something to prove, who hit him so hard their fists rip skin right through foam arm guards, they donkey-kick the breath out of him, exhaust themselves on his body, they’re picturing their boss’ face and tacking it over his, kicking at their guts and hair plugs and ex-loves, and after the fight, his throat harsh from hard breathing, he’s dying-hot in thick chest pads, shaking on his feet as he bows to the judges, his wrists feel rickety, and he winces when his girlfriend grabs him by the biceps, groans when she pats his sore left buttock, and deep bone bruises surface a week later, lemon-colored and the size and shape of peaches or rubber bullets or closed fists, muted suns on arms and shins, these strange blood oranges, burning under the skin as he walks around hemorrhaging fresh pain, somewhat alive. ...

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