A po-wem, bjj

All My Old Gis (Are Sad and Lonely)

My closet is  Golgotha
A garden of old gis
in a sad forgotten pile
in a too small Rubbermaid bin.

I’m sorry I don’t wear you anymore.
And I’m sorry my cat pissed on a few of you
But you stink too much
And you are too frayed.

So you sit in the dark,
like a pack of cranky hobos
abandoned by the world
and huddled around a flaming barrel.

Do you dream gi dreams?
Of  swimming in the washing machine?
Or is too dark and lonely,
In my spare bedroom where I play video games.

But you were too big on me, white Michado.
And I couldn’t get the smell out of you,
Kimono Fighter and Blue Atama.
So I’ll see  you all in hell, someday.

Until then, sit in my closet.
Your ruined palace of cotton,
Waterloo of canvas pants,
and dream of better days.

A po-wem, competition, fat people


If I could do anything

anything at all,

and be anyone,

anyone at all,

I would be a sumo wrestler in Japan.

Languid and stately

in seemingly eternal repose,

everything they do

is on their own time,

And I find that appealing.

But then suddenly

an eruption occurs

of slapping and pulling

a lift and a crash

but then it’s over.

Like a truck rumbling on the interstate

and shaking your house.

Sudden, alarming, and well past

before you know what happened.