Monthly Archives: April 2016

Sweet Science


A flurry of rhythmic punches.
Right. Right. Right. A snappy left. Right. Right,
sets up a left faint – followed by a right uppercut
that seems to rise from the ring floor
connecting squarely upon his opponents jaw
that elongates the chin and neck into a vertical arch
that remained me of a feeding giraffe.

The crowds cheers rides upon the backs
of the ahs and ohs of fans who emphatically cringe, feeling the impact of each landing punch.

The fighter stagers back,
regains equilibrium and firers off a powerful left
then clenches with his opponent – buying time
to catch his breath – too reach the bell –
too clear the cobwebs from his mind.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

One boxer dances back to his corner.
The other, walks with pride and a faint wobble — to his.

Corner men infuse their fighters with bravado:
“Your kicking his mother fucking ass”
Corner men waive smelling salts beneath the nose.
Corner men dabs away blood.
Corner men wipes sweat from glistening forehead.
Corner men reminds their fight maintain their rhythm.
Corner men claps shoulder.
Corner men barks, “Go own his ass!”


Ding. Ding.
Bell sounds. Referee drops his arm.

The underdog throws a blur of punches in the two minute
most jabs and punches find air
where a weaving head had just been.
The announcer informs
“He’s only connected on 9 of 52”

Season champ shows predatory patience…
for younger arms to tire,
for his opponent over stride
for a moment of doubt…

Snap – patience pays off
a right slices between raised gloves
lands square on jaw… staggers the defender.
Champ strides in.
Right. Left. Left, left. Right. Right. Left.
Each punch lands – driving his opponent into the ropes.

Lunging forward in calculated desperation
rummy fighter manages another clench.
Ref steps in…

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!


Corner men are doing their thing.
Crowd is roaring. Pounding chests. Cheering on their fighter.
Commentator says the fight is close.
Commentator thinks the champ his ahead on point.
Stat man says he has the champ ahead 6 round to 4.
Stat man says the judges might have it different.
Cameraman pans the crowd:
Lingering on sexy women.
Lingering on rappers and their possess.
Lingering again on sexy women
whose curves say they are anything but cheep.
Lingering on Jack Nicholson
who is wearing dark shades
and flashing his money smile.

Ding. Ding.

Calls the fighters to center ring.
Reminding everyone their is a fight gong on.
Referee drops his hand.
Challenger release a quick storm of punches
that lack the snap and pop of earlier rounds.

The champ shows a faint smile.
The champ shows shark eyes.
The champ closes with a series of pounding body shots
stagger his opponent.
The champ is calm and vicious
his gloves move with the precision of sharped teeth
eating away his opponents resolve.
The champs punches still carry leverage.
Right jab, left cross, faint,
two more lefts into the rib cage.

Challenger takes hard hits that corner him.
Challenger taunt the champion.
Challenger clowns and mugs – the crowd cheers.
Challenger plays wounded.
Challenger dares the chap to finish him.
Challenger knows he has only one chance.
Chap does not take bait.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!


Corner man tells his fighter:
“Stop fucking playing. Stop the bull shit.”
Corner man lies to his fight:
“You even. Keep doing what you are doing.”
Corner man squeeze his fighters green glove:
“If we are going down, go down punching.”

Ding! Ding!

Champ strolls to center ring,
his seasoned muscles are coiled cobras.

Challenger dances for show.
The crowd erupts, emitting euphoric screams.
The crowd falls into a state of rapture chanting is name.
The crowd devolves into a fevered madness.

Referee drops his hand.

Challengers hands hang hip high with misplaced arrogance
as he dances flat footed
welcoming an attack.

Champ faints a series of punches
appearing closer to the challenger then he is.

Challenger throws a looping hook
believing his bait has been swallowed whole.
Challenger over strides, connecting with air
thick with the sour scent of the crowd.
Challenger is twisting through the air.
Challengers brown eyes slip into a state of confusion.
Unsure how he became air born.
Unsure if he needs a pilots license.
Unsure if his feet remain cat like.

The crowd is as silent as a stone before entering water.

The champ strides forward,
supporting his launching-pad right
with a manic pounding of rights and lefts
to body and face.

Challengers nose evaporates from sight,
a red plume blossoming in its place.
Challengers knees fail to function,
caving inward with the precision of wall
giving way upon destination.

Champ throws a final hook from his hip
connects with challenges cheek.

Challenger becomes horizon
as he spins face down into the mat.

Chap dances without flair towards his corner.

Referee kneel. Begins the count of 10.

The crowd erupts with transferred loyalty.
The commentator swear the results were never in doubt.
Referee lifts the Champs right hand into air.
Jack Nicholson leaves with three fine-dressed women,
each wearing shades.

The challenger, motionless, could be living or dead.

Copyright © 2016 by Duane Kirby Jensen

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