Faceoff on Facebook

Faceoff on Facebook

Itching to hit the ice,
jumping the boards,
stick sizzling hot!

It’s Puck Drop in the digital barn,
Twig in hand, ready to inflict max harm.
It’s go get ’em, hit ‘em twice,
Leave them bloodied on thin ice,
Crank up the check,
cross them in the crease,
pummel their nose,
’til they cannot sneeze,
choke them out like semi-pros,
drench their battered bench in this all-out tease.

Now whistles shriek,
glass shakes,
boards and OPs groan,
logic breaks,
ice flakes,
I skate the chaos tight,
where once was peace;
I drop the gloves,
spurn agreement,
embrace the fistfight.

It’s frothy forecheck fierce,
dump and chase,
slam the flaming puck
in calamitous embrace,
stick lifts, snap the wrist,
goalie sprawled, cannot resist,
spot, spit, spin the zone,
weave the lane,
hammer the shot, cause more max pain,
taunt the net, in an instant
instigate intent insane,
turn their imagined
power play to impotence and head-hanging shame.

I’m off to cause the most disruption,
embarrassment, and tactical misfunction.
Go toe-to-toe with sniper and grinders,
extra attackers, enforcers, blueliners,
goons, factchecking forwards and netminders.

Gloves off, gloves fly,
elbows raise, sparks the darkened sky;
we roar this shredded shed alive.

Backcheck hard, pinch along the wall,
body slam, hear the echoing call,
jam the slot, board the puck,
score the goal, nothing’s left to luck,
mock their best friends, skate the seam,
dump their dream deeply in our steam,
crash the crease, bruise the scene,
leave them wishing they had been unseen.

Final buzzer, horns explode,
scoreboard burns, no hint of mercy showed,
chaos reigns when we choose to roam.

Power surge, like five on three,
check to boards, it’s my destiny,
skate the slot, fake and spin,
hammer home, let mad mayhem in,
taunt their goalie, smear their pride,
rip their zone, no place in this restless rink to hide,
leave them confused, wondering, gaslighted, tongue-tied:
I reign supreme, hate them all, take no side!

The thread is quiet now.
Untallied, bang-bang goals for my ego.
I sit back in the dark, the lone enforcer of this sad, little league.
This ain’t the show, but it’s still my dream;
I traded sleep to brashly fight,
to show up those that pretended they were right,
to weaken those that imagined their beliefs were strong,
to break them not with facts, but any nonsense to make them wrong.

Soon the match will commence again;
I will have some coffee, a bite to eat,
take a moment to catch a breath,
maybe brush my teeth,
and then pursue another win:
more anarchic strife,
smashing faces, self-regard, and all positions without warning.

It’s my reason for life,
my discipline for surviving
another once-married, now divorced, Tuesday morning.

The Handcuff King

Escape pays for now:
suspend me upside down;
lock glass and steel;
fill fully;
water flowing over.

But if my escapes entertains,
understand that it is my existence.
I can handle building-size milk cans, Chinese water torture cells,
underwater crates and being buried alive.

Faced with flight or forced-fight,
the choice is easy
but understand I must force fight to flee:
no escape is without struggle.

But without escape or the opportunity of one,
I must hang on
and for how long?

Until I burst?

Or until I meet the next world:
the destiny of all that depart?

Explain to me the retreat available:
the extrication that sidesteps;
the evasion that slips the lock,
that springs a liberation.

No, you know no more than I about withdrawal.
You just know more about staying the course
and that won’t help much
when I need to leave, not the visage of death,
but death itself
and its closely shrouded, tightly bound design.