Jab, Hook, Right.

Jab, Hook, Right.

Jab- hook- right, feint, sidestep, hook. The fear, rage, and bitterness of life gets poured into a sack of leather and sand, hanging by a thread, swinging like a pendulum of constant sorrow, doom, hope, and sweaty baptism.

Jab, hook, right. Another 3 punch combination feeds the flame of anger as you circle in, out, and around the 120 pound everlasting opponent. Bobbing and weaving in between imagined limbs flailing toward your chin at the same exuberant rate of fire you, yourself, struggle to maintain.

The heavy bag, the heavy breath, and the heavy heart are all ablaze in bone breaking, knuckle busting, blood curdling motion. Hands sting like the sweat in your eyes and both serve only to turn up the heat of your intentions. The internal furnace that peaks and wanes along with your cross, low hook, high hook, right hook, sidestep, straight, feint, and hook.

Inhale the atmosphere of your own exhaust and sneeze out the day’s impurities as your mouth fills with more mucous than what your head sees as necessary, but this too is a temporary thought, lost in the metronomic movement of your jab, cross, hook, counter to the body, shuffle to the left—into the opponent’s power, realize your mistake, backup, breathe, find the center, start again. Jab, right, hook, 1, 2, 3, uppercut, feint, and slide.

The bell rings but you are not done.

Slip and counter, fade and return, jab, hook, right.

Jab: there’s your debt. Hook, there’s the traffic ticket. Right, there’s your dissatisfaction. All of it getting pounded into your silent psychologist, who never advises, and you love the good doctor for it. Your leather confidant never asks for anything but more, and never offers any encouragement except for the slapping sound of fears leaving fists in flamboyant crescendos singing to the rhythm of jab, hook, right.

Step, right, hook, back up, inhale deeply and flood out everything with a furious flurry. Muscles ache and salty sweat flies off of every surface as your right and left pass each other like cars on opposite ends of the road, the drivers are texting their wives and wondering where their lives will take them after the journey is over, they’re safe at home eating lasagna and drinking red wine, discussing the merits of ethanol fuel, cult membership, and mandatory euthanasia for the elderly, and it all gets drowned out to the tune of a song on the radio that goes something like…

Jab, hook, right. Keep fighting a good fight, enjoy dinner tonight, sleep, dream, and replenish because tomorrow the combat continues.