Painting by Rick Mobbs
Fist of Dreams
Jason Bruno
was a heavyweight;
198 pounds of passion,
amateur ambition,
with a record of 20-1-0.
He was a stevedore
down on those rowdy docks,
like his daddy and his uncle;
and his thick long arms rippled
with the solid muscle
built from hard and honest labor.
He was a fresh kid,
19 years old,
still had all his teeth,
and never had any
run-ins with the law.
Coach Morgan
stopped by one fine day,
and said in his raspy tone:
“I been watching you all year,
and I like your style, kid.
I think you can be
an Olympic contender,
could wrap those fists
in old glory.
You got a right hand
hits like a sledge hammer,
and a left hand
that punches like a mule kicks.
Do good,
stay clean,
and for God’s sake
stay away from the money boys.
After that
look me up.”
That night
Bruno could not help himself—
he had the Rocky dream
again.
Glenn A. Buttkus August 2008
2 comments:
Reading some of the comments of Rick Mobbs site; MINE ENEMY GROWS OLDER, I was touched by the power of this poet, so I will reprint his comment:
on August 18, 2008 at 9:20 am6 Will Scarlet
I remember that day. I’m not the poet that Rick is. And don’t have a website, so it will have to go here.
MORGAN
The waiting is the worst. The hour before the fight.
I am ashamed for being so
Scared
He sees it. As he sees everything.
If you not scared, he says, it’s time for you to stop.
But still, the waiting
Is so . . .
hard.
So he sits with me.
Facing me.
Slowly wrapping my hands.
Nimble, gentle movements. Serene.
Breathe, he says. Just breathe.
Toothpick in corner of his mouth.
Never shows emotion. An occassional smile flickers;
Ocassional mischief.
Nothing more.
In our long van rides across the countryside.
We would talk.
Nightime excursions to
Dusty towns.
Past the grey mills.
The quiet farms.
On our way to the next fight. And the next.
You kids don’t understand, he says,
That a piece of me die each time you fall,
and don’t get up, with your head high.
A picture is taken.
A moment frozen in time,
Between rounds.
I am overwhelmed. Overmatched.
Never seen someone so strong, so fast.
My breaths coming fast.
inandout. inandout. whatthefuck.
He slowly kneels down.
And rests his forhead against mine.
And smiles softly. Howyoudoin’?
inandout. inandout.
I’m going to stop the fight, he says quietly.
And I freeze. And my eyes go wide.
No. no. Please no. Anything, but that. Never.
He picks up the white towel. It’s ready, he says.
You better get busy then, he says.
He’s not smiling now.
When the fight ends. And they raise the other man’s hand.
I close my eyes, and take in the moment.
And life is wonderful.
I fell, and got back up.
I walk to him.
And he takes my head, and brings it to his.
Congratulations, he says.
You done good.
And he grins.
And so do I.
This is why we fight.
-jason
on August 19, 2008 at 3:47 pm7 marlowe44
Jason, I love your poem, bristling with thought, emotion, and sharp imagery. It is more than a poem. It is a short story by John Steinbeck or Jack London. It is a short film, or a long one. It is a perfect companion to Rick’s masterful painting.
Glenn
It turns out we found out later when Jason Bruno opened up his own blog site, WILL SCARLET FEUDS, that he is, in fact, the older son of Rick Mobbs. He, too, is a hell of a poet and writer, and is starting up a storybook collaborative. Will the wonders of cyberness ever cease? Hopefully not.
Glenn
Post a Comment