So once this oldie I knew, a real
fighter, a fighting machine, shook from
lack of adrenaline, like his tap's run dry.
Still sweating and biting, he had the name
Dog McMurdy. Even in the dark he sparkled in heavy
sweaty glitter beads, filling everything with the sharp
stink of salt. I knew the meaning of life
In the smell of it.
Or life is sound, of his bouncing gloves on bone
or his scars cracking open, old wounds yawning open
like a lazy dog. His skin peels like a bruised peach,
with the juice pops and exploding till
Nothing ain't inside him.
Even in the dark you could see his old skin falling off,
And the relentless quivering beads of sweat.
I'm gentle about it, my metal on his skull. "It's
business," I sputter out. The metal on bone, then
the clicking hammer gears -- he once fought, and now
just a grunting and a shaking, whispering, and choking
"Do it," he finally cries out like the louder the quicker.
"Do it!" And I do it like I'm the thunder of God or
something, and the memory is kept clean.