I’ve been throwing

large men onto ocean

 

fist mats, surface of

sweat & bruise.

 

I have been thrown

every day this week

 

hoping to clear this

beehive brain. All buzzing

 

sounds a lot like ends.

In Judo, an ippon counts

 

as “perfect.” The body becomes

a circle and for a brief moment

 

legs are intertwined, arms—Durga

esque when we navigate Samsara.

 

In circumventing suicide, I found

best to keep the body from stillness

 

Let the limbs dangle only in mania

slumber. Climb new heights

 

in the daylight, pull-up

in the evening, callous

 

every softening. Become

unrecognizable. Try to beat

 

time like a violent wave.

I wrestle with my body

 

like combatting a forceful

entry. Eyes shut, I see a gun

 

peeking through the door

creaking open, my body

 

against it, pushing—always

pushing. Today, I will be

 

thrown by large men

onto blue mats of sweat

 

and bruise—circle & all.