No Eight Counts

 

He has confused baring himself
with misanthropy. He pins his own
struggles with a butterfly touch
then slams the case with a left hook.


If raw emotion could be swallowed
like an egg in a glass, he’d do it.
It would be a ticket only event,
front row blood spatter guaranteed.


Some will cheer him on, blows
solid in bruises. A few will curl
their lips. But all, with no exceptions,
want to witness the ‘making of’ —


the ‘breaking of’ even more so.