when you're born and bred into the shit of living with one foot
in hell and the other at death's door you get used to gut punches
that leave you curled up in a fetal ball praying for death to come
like a gift from Santa,
whether it's the police or some other punk, if you
squeak weak, there's a bowl of soup and a mouth full of
broken teeth in the deal,
but after a while the blows make you punch drunk and you
stagger, stutter and weave--it's not that you're still in the
fight, you just think you are and the punches you throw hit
nothing but air, like the words that dribble out of your mouth,
but the soul is empty and the heart dried-up waiting for a
pace-maker, the blows don't hurt so much anymore, but only
because they are so familiar.
J. Masuda © 2005