Friday night special: a poem by M.A. Istvan Jr.

Fight Delay by ​M.A. Istvan Jr.

​Despite what the ringside sportscasters say, 
the champ is not stalling his entrance show, 
rapper-assisted, to unnerve and cool down 
the number-one-ranked beast of a contender. 
Alone, he throws haymakers at the mirror.

He sits rocking, blocking the stadium booms. 
He cries and rocks on the toilet, trying to free 
the sore-to-touch gut loaded, early this week, 
with bananas, prunes, melons, fiber drinks 
to stimulate a nice clearing in the first place.

The worst, he thought, was the bout turning 
non-title from his failure to make weight. 
But worse was now: sciatic-pulsing bowels 
that yesterday’s all-in move of raw castor oil 
was to free. And now his wife is at the door.

---

M. A. ISTVAN JR., a high-strung poet of veering moods, is a professional philosopher by day. His crooked nose—a hereditary feature stronger than the jutting ribs, the unhinged jaw, and the alcoholism—is the most conspicuous of what is really a full-bodied crookedness common to the male and female members of the Istvan clan. Perhaps his zaniest project in the works is an introductory textbook concerning the philosophy of the Five-Percent Nation, the Nation of Gods and Earths. The textbook aims to lay out the Five-Percenter take on the key topics of metaphysics: modality, freedom, mind-body relationship, time, personal identity, properties, and God.