Doodling . . .
Let me prove it to you. I’ll sit here
and look you in the eye with a knee
to my back and blood
dripping from my nostril. I’ll batter
my head against a brick wall, cut
my knuckles on teeth and bleed
a few more ounces. I’ve been knocked down
more than once. I’m sick
enough to know not to quit.
I’m not tired just yet. Listen, I can swing
like a windmill. I’ll ground you
to powder. I’ll not bat an eye
or blink at your flurries. I can take it.
I can stick my chin up and receive
the grace of your upper-cut. Lord,
is that all you can dish? Are you not
heart enough? Are you not ghost
enough to give me a lickin’? Quick,
jab my nose. Kick my shin
and toss me to the ground. Shovel
the dirt on me. Split my lip.
Crack my rib. Spit on my grave.
I’ll fight filthy.