To the Artist's Page To our home page
To T. O. Davis's previous piece To T. O. Davis's next piece
Fencing 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.
To the top of this page