Title Bout

This post goes out to my old friend Petey.  He’s always loved this piece.  I’m not certain whether it’s because he’s a rabid boxing fan, his Italian lineage, or the circumstances under which the poem was created.

We had just gotten off of work after a particularly strenuous day, turning nothing into something, and made our way to the closest watering hole.  A shot and a beer apiece, and the relaxation commenced. 

My relaxation involved a rather atypical fixation for me…focusing on a tiny, Reagan era TV set, way atop the filth of that once magnificent Art Deco back bar.  The rabbit ears were precisely tuned into the only damn channel that archaic, seventy pound, cathode ray tube device could pull out of the overstuffed airwaves…a lowly UHF signal seemingly from south of the border.

Now, Petey’s relaxation differed from mine.  While the two shirtless caricatures, jockeyed about on the smoke stained screen, capturing my rapt attention, my compadre bounced about the bar, chatting up old friends and making some new ones.  See, he’s a bit more of a gadfly than me, and his charm comes in spades.

I haven’t an idea as to how much time passed between our first entering the bar, and meeting back up again to chat, but it wasn’t too terribly long at all…perhaps the time it takes a couple of semi-skilled, mostly sober dart tossers to shoot a game of Cricket.  But by the time Petey came back around to check on me, I had scribbled a few observations on the ubiquitous bar napkin.

He uttered something to the effect of, “What you got there, man?”  So I pushed the bev nap down the bar to him.  Petey took an extended moment to read and study it, then asked, “When did you write this?”  I responded, “Just now.”  For a second, he didn’t believe me, and flashed that you’re fulla shit look.  But then he recalled my penchant for penning the word, and one hella broad smile came across his face.

This is the piece that was written that day…written during that fleeting, luscious moment of pure clarity and flow, while nestled in the dank confines of one of the crummiest joints on the North Side.

So this one goes out to you, my man.  Thanks for a bunch of great times, a couple I’d rather not recall, and more laughs than many are blessed with in a lifetime.


Title Bout

I’m sitting in a bar watching a fight on the TV
it’s a one-hundred and twenty-two pound, title bout

and I’m trying to figure out whether pugilism is a metaphor for some greater life battle…like good versus evil…or right versus wrong…or black versus white, versus tan, versus Italian…and I’ve come to no conclusion whatsoever

I must say I’m relegated to believing it’s just two mean motorscooters, pissed off, beating the snot out of one another, for an oversized, gaudy, discount store belt, and a purse…yeah, a fighter’s prize is a purse

but it’s entertaining, because they’re lightweights, and they move much quicker than heavyweights.  like moths circumnavigating the omnipresent quick death of a bug zapper, as opposed to two swollen sloth, vying for a spot at the trough, before the ensuing slaughter

and the commentators postulate.  the hometown fans gesticulate.  but the bookies, well they masturbate…salivating like the dogs of Pavlov, conditioned to savor the fleeting flavor of open flesh wounds, and open wallets

yeah, I’m sitting in a bar watching a fight on the TV
it’s a one-hundred and twenty-two pound, title bout

This entry was posted in Austin Bader, Austin F Bader, Chicago Poetry, Lyrics, Musings, Poetry, Prose, Spoken Word, Word. Bookmark the permalink.

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