Saturday, June 30, 2007


My blog is obviously sparse. I'm writing this to change that. Unfortunately, I'm watching Ali/Frazier III, so I'm in a bad mood. Angelo Dundee is in the studio talking about the fight with a few other boxing personalities. According to Angelo Dundee, Ali called Joe Frazier an Uncle Tom in jest; while some might think that indifference mitigates Ali's remarks, I think it just makes the venom sting twice as badly. Keep in mind that Frazier helped Ali while Ali was in exile for refusing conscription. If Ali didn't mean it, why did he say it? If the sole motive in saying something so obviously false and demeaning is a few chuckles, why would any civilized person say those horrible things? Dante leaves the ninth circle for betrayers of their benefactors, I think it might be appropriate for "The Greatest." I would probably think nothing of Ali's remarks if the tenor of those remarks aren't completely disregarded, or if Ali's losses stick to him in the public eye. His nickname says it all for me: "The Greatest." He's not the greatest. Jack Johnson--who has always been a personal favorite of mine--fought in more adversity. Rocky Marciano has a better record. Joe Louis and Larry Holmes have more title defenses. Larry Holmes knocked out Ali. Joe Louis also had a longer reign as Heavyweight Champion.

Why is Ali in such high esteem? This observer thinks Ali's most memorable moments were in front of a microphone. The Foreman fight was amazing, in all honesty; it was Ali's best moment in the ring. Ali had a great chin, probably one of the best. I'll admit, I like Floyd Mayweather. I like his style. I like his abilities. I also like his record. Undefeated is undefeated. Floyd seems to win fights despite his talk. It's generally considered to be a flaw in his character, if not a flaw in his boxing prowess. Ali said far more horrible things to Joe Frazier, and people love Ali because of them. Ali's mouth, no matter how false and hurtful the remarks, is still lauded and touted as a wonderful thing. Ali's losses don't stick, especially in the press. The media still plays "Down Goes Frazier!," Howard Cosell's famous remarks from Frazier's two fights against George Foreman at every available opportunity. Those same outlets, including ESPN Classic, almost never replay Cosell's call of Ali's brutal knockout at the hands of Larry Holmes. Ali's no bum, but he's not the best fighter ever, either. He's a media darling. I hate media darlings.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Sleep is good

Time doesn't heal all wounds, but being unconscious in slumber helps me forget the visions which would otherwise burn into my retinae. That was today.

In Pursuit of Happiness

Nothing beats choosing bone and waking up to the same. I will sleep some more down in my lair. Only good swimmers can find me. I doubt any would try.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Sunday, June 10, 2007

Steel or Bone?

Counting doesn't help. I don't think any sentiment will reverse my fortunes in struggle. From moment to moment, I might seem ok, but I'm not. Eight years ago, the verses flowed off the tip of my pen, and every last one was beautiful, strong, and important. For a time, I thought I could beat this. Signs pointed to yes; not everything was bad then. I had effective medication, a circle of friends, and a supportive family. I firmly believed the notion that deep inside, in the breath of my smallest voice, lived redemption. Nothing could be further from the truth.

My poetry had three distinct phases, the burning era, the lion era, and the post-leonine awareness. My first poems featured fire in a realm of almost pure fantasy. I lived for days in the Void, observing and recording the behavior and customs of my Void's visitors and inhabitants. The terror came from these visitors; I didn't want to be discarded in the fashion most people discard people like me: promises, proverbs, and snake oil. Clearly if nothing improves once given the customary line of dismissive drivel and pointless, clueless pep talks, the blame rests squarely on the crazy person to most of you. That was the burning era; vitriol, violence, and intelligence make fabulous company when no one else will speak.

The lion era fell on the heels of a revelation: the fundamental truths in my poems were bits of me that no one wants to hear. People could appreciate the more familiar imagery of lions, wildebeest, and water buffalo, but remain more aloof. I assumed for many years that the violent vitriol of my character was the part most despised. I was wrong. I delved deeper into the Void, and thought I found the distasteful sections of myself. Your world and my world would see eye-to-eye from time-to-time, and it is the memories of those years that help me know that change is possible, no matter how unlikely.

That unlikelihood sparked my post-leonine awareness. I'm not a Lion anymore: I can't run and my claws are lacking. I learned the secret of my solitude from a once very dear friend of mine: this whole thing, every word of every struggle, is pointless. The parts I want to share, all of them, are but worthless sources of sentimentality. My withered pen so accustomed to writing beautiful nothings, accomplished two very solid conclusions. Firstly, no one wants a ticket to the Void, even if only to visit. Also, anyone foolish enough to choose the inside of my gilded palace of sonnets to be with me would never stay. All things come to pass; some can feign surprise, but not me. The same voices of my past and future are always right: this is pointless, and no amount of beauty can make this strong.

Steel or Bone?

Friday, June 01, 2007

Long Slow Grind

There is no good news to report. It's just more of the long, slow grind. I take every day as it comes, and search for blessings to keep my spirits. I usually find solitude in my own monkish way.

Cezanne painted onions with sprouts. I believe he painted the onions as he saw them: as onions grew slowly, he painted their progress. My regression is much the same: no one who stays around me a lot sees the slip. However, if the curious reader observes me over years, my onions grow sprouts. All I can do anymore is follow around those sprouts with a pen that never seems as ready as it was yesterday.