The tale of the tape
By Cameron Conaway

doesn’t mean shit. Some stories
are in the 4 oz gloves, ask them about the glory,

the gory BJ Penn blood licks, the smell -
desperate sweat seeping through tape’s glue -

they will stay quiet as breathlessness: an uppercut
under the ribcage. Hip control can’t be quantified,

nor can instinct be liquefied, fit into a shiny can
advertised by a slow-motion-for-me ass with a tan

and what about the transition from position
to submission? The butterfly sweep to half guard

(pass that guard!) to full mount to triangle
from the top angle to an omoplata -

almost countered - to a gogoplata to fuck
he slipped out, back to the feet, duck

the left hook, (watch the right knee)
sink the single leg, against the cage,

control the rage to control the breath,
sweep that foot, the soot of your life

under the rug for these three
carefree, fight or flight five minute rounds.

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