Never In A Regulation Sized Ring
Flushing, New York — Winter 1997
Letting go is always the hardest part. The wars fought between one another — never in a regulation sized ring — are often brutal and catastrophic. Somehow these wars seem so familiar that we refuse to end the conflict. Too comfortable.
Sometimes we’re stuck in the molasses, each blow familiar and we often mistake it for comfort and love. Meanwhile the brutality continues. The damage is never physical, always psychic. The doomsday weapon is at each other’s disposal but we dare not use it. One can’t have that when the umbilical cord of spiritual violence somehow keeps nourishing us. To sever it would mean disaster, a disaster we perceive as more brutal and apocalyptic than the current war being waged.
Sleep comes down. Sink into black holes designed by the enemies of insomnia. Sleep comes down. The cello strings break in the pale moonlight. You’re off to the stars, kicking remnants of her lies out of the way. You hang on to any thread she gives you and you can’t let go. You don’t want to know the reason. Sleep comes down. The only chance to get away from the beauty she’s imbedded so deep within you.