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I still hold the foil in my hand.
The rubberized grip of metallic, lightning-death
compressed into five grams of instruction.
I can't let it go, this imaginary
extension of my penis.
I converse with myself
about the philosophy of Whitman
and other poets I read on the wall.
I want to kill my opponent.
See his blood spurt from the white smock.

I don't want a ruddus or laurels.

I can still feel the glove, too.
Its leathery-cloth feel
disconnects me from the rapier.
I am ebb and flow, with sweat trickling
behind black screened helmet
and heat produced itch 
in the middle
of my back.
I parry a lunge
and stab my enemy-my partner-with black, rubber tip in repost.
I feel I could take on the world,
maybe become a Jedi Knight
if the darkside hadn't called first.

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