Her Life Coach Was William Hearst

Reeling as if struck,

but no punches have been thrown.

Laced up gloves for a fight that’s splattering black and blue paint,

but the only strike felt is a stray word’s spike,

jutting out as the javelin to secure the prize.


Take the triumph now that’s been sold to the forked tongue hibernating in your mouth.

Indulge the treasure trove of adulation when the crowd buys the first print.

Tuck that Pulitzer plan proudly under your arm.

No bout was ever won fair without a yellow dress to spare.


To the ball gown,

racing down now,

looking to rend that which cheated me away.

Spin around then

at the neon clouds

flashing the repeated beats fit to bury a man’s grave.


Frantically flip the panic switch and abort all control.

There’s no room for change when each change is seen as a same shade of black or white.

Where then to place in this ring?

There’s no stable footing wrapped into a web of tightening cords,

bent round the jugular ripe for a Tyson’s kiss.


Heroes of our fables struck with precision,

decisive in their action, on target in their game.

Sketched out thusly as the dart magnet for sharpened spear phrases,

no conclusion comes sooner than being a victim of a gold medal marauder,

shedding skin to integrate into a pyrite shell.


To the old face,

twisting dials round,

pretending shouting makes a point to a brick wall.

Turn around and see

the neon clouds

flashing repeated beats burying a self-portrait’s grave.


Never has a fair fight been without one willing to flip it over.

Upside-down, numbness rushing to the eyelids,

and closing shut only shows black and blue.

( ❤ Mitch)

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