fighting

‘fighting is actually the best thing a man can have in his soul’ – renzo gracie

george sits at my mother’s table, eating
the vegetarian food she makes special for him
she says he needs to take better care of himself
that he’s spending himself
like a rich man
turned monk. he just smiles
like he always does.

if you ask him,
george will admit, reluctantly
that he’s slept only 4 hours
in the past 72
leaves to the imagination
the content of sleepless hours, whirling dervish
of soft words, firm hugs and the staleness of clothes
that never fit quite right,
spinning from disaster to crisis
to the quiet moments with the angry boys strutting
with the insecure machismos of those
who know the world don’t give a shit, that life
is a whirlwind and their lives burn
like candleflames.
he hasn’t been paid
in three months, isn’t paid enough
anyways, but just doesn’t care, has what he needs
to live on. doesn’t drink, smoke or buy clothes

so fuck it.

he’s lost a youth a summer, young spark
burning out in the august heat. already damned sick
of funerals, only times he gets drunk, cares
too much, even though his boss tells him
when you work here, you can’t let the kids get
too close, you’ll break your heart
over and over again on the walls
they build up, you’ll break it when you lose
them, to gunfire, drugs or the police
to budget deficit neglects
or what the fuck ever.

george remains silent during those lectures, does
not dignify them with a response. says he’s so skinny
because he’s a vegetarian or genetics or because he’s nevert hungry.

my momma says that’s a lie, watches with satisfaction
as he devours what she puts in front of him. she says
that passion and love are fires, and they’re burning him up
from the inside.