In A Fisted Universe

Would have thought we were trainedfor the shots we took—fists tossedinto the blind bend of neck-n-shoulderwhere truth held more misses than hits—most of which was more show than blow.Sometimes, as if on cue, a spot broke openin the crowd amidst drawl and grimace—and the withdrawn drew their card intothe dark matter of an ever after—triumphor defeat, no one ever cried, as if the bodyonly attended to the tear and break and notto tears. Most of these bouts, staged in emptyschool lots—fists flaring their stellar remnants—begat not one bona fide winner—fight withinas bitter as any in the ring. And the onething that always survived were lies toldabout whose fists were hindmost—nothow easily hearts, under guard, went intoflip mode over a fresh pair of white sneakers,or that some were eager to pledge homage toa posse—didn't matter the cause or if one reallybelieved in the push of fists over bodies—one dayyou'd be next. And some years from this moment,the sound of something breaking; some poor boy'splea will awaken lessons learned in science class,about sound travel in space—myths of howone can witness the destruction of the worldwithout a single sound—how one can wail, wail,wail, and no one'd be able to hear it. But youknow this to be claptrap—in space or back lot,you can always hear the blare of your own ruin.