I am learning oratory karate from a tongue-tied dojo. Arguments land like blows unblocked to my diaphragm knocking out wind and words, leaving me in silent pain, gasping for air to retort, but I am swinging with my eyes closed and I fail to make contact. Self-defense turns into self-demise. Lines and stanzas once like a Cobra’s bite dripping with venom and lethal die in my throat when facing a stacked deck favoring the mongoose. Knowing the odds I spit my poison and battle against an unbeatable foe.
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1 comments:
Bono, the greatest poet of the 20th century, once claimed that writing the happy stuff we find in life is the hardest thing in the world. I think he's right.
This does a good job of building up a back-against-the-wall feeling. I'm interested to see where it goes. Relief, or destruction?
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