vitamin d milk

Before anything he is a thief that discovers cunning. When the veins and muscles release their special take off, from the bicep like a smooth shuttle intending for mars, he imagines his hands going right through his opponent’s head, all the way through to the other side where there is an audience and a mosaic of people watching. Closely does their lips stay open without breathing and carefully watch how drool becomes air and the dumb struck way bright eyes follow. Over there, flashing cameras and writing on notepads, ugly men in matching hats and ties, breasts and roughnecks, see something angelic yet terrible. The fighters are losing weight at every blow, evaporating. Gloves glow like neon. Appear like phantoms moving alive. The fighter thinks, never has there been so many people listening to me, and he punches like he doesn’t remember who he is. A blonde woman whispers to her husband in the crowd, god in heaven, he is going to kill him, and the husband thinks of his three thousand dollars, pumping his fists like he is rowing a boat, screaming curse words towards the main arena. He has money on Rivers. Ignores the dismay of his beautiful wife, biting her lip.

Maybe the crowd cheers because they can see something that belongs to them. Or they scream to be rid of it.

Two men in a large box that‘s see-through, pretending to be alone. Brothers chiseling each other down like ice. To possess a belt much too big for either of them.

The bell rings to end the round.

Rivers’ eyelids feel shattered.  The mouth serves almost no function except as an air hole. Lights hum above them like a floating city. Sweat is the most obvious thing that happens here, Rivers thinks and he walks back, hoping for no wobbling in his step. His trainer wipes him down with a rough towel and he feels predictable on his blue wooden stool, absolutely loveless. He cannot see anyone in the black orbit behind him, or in front of him, but he knows everyone is there. Or anyone who’s anyone, who’s anyone, watches his arms like wings from a dragon. Air conditioning pumps manically down on the thousands and the temperature down here, is crowded, both hot and cold. He feels so warm and moist he believes he can glide everywhere or slip anytime, just sliding. The roar of the people around him collectively, makes him feel rather shaved or skinny.  Even shiny. But he begins to calm himself down and produces the color white in his head, closing eyes, isolating sounds one by one, like crumb by crumb. Rivers wonders if Samantha is at home watching.

HBO. Showtime. Cinemax.

He feels himself being filmed by large, elephant cameras, and pictures white bold letters near his face on screen: Rivers vs. Mason 1997.

Round 3.

He can see almost too much detail, like lines on the face, hairs on the ears, and all three dimensions. Beads of sweat linger on eye brows like perfect jewelry and there is air and dust illuminated. So many things are freezing and so many things are moving and Mason gets up and rises from his opposing red corner, almost absent minded or disturbed without speech or affection. Or loveless too. Slow as gravity pulling up and Rivers obliges.

Charismatically they meet in the center and the two men make circles.

Almost wink at each other with bruises.

They pace.

The ring is a fighter’s favorite place to contemplate or reminiscence. Day dream like a butterfly, day dream like a bee.

Mason decides to see feathers in his head. Something to keep him standing strong and sharp. Deaf to the crowd.

Rivers imagines Samantha. Her large green cruel eyes. Their short brutal romances. The way she looks down when she says things hard to say. I don’t think I want to be touched by you again tonight, she says. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be here. Us together.

Even if murder ends the match, neither men will face a judge or jury because sports are a consensual act. Even marriage can never be this safe, Rivers thinks and forgets. Love less sacred. Mason swings a good one and lets Rivers falls down. Left homicidal hook. The audience screams with flash photography, thrown hats and floats behind him, in sound and in unison so loud together. The canvas floor is as cool as he wants it to be. Blood levels in his head and the small referee begins a short count of five. Six. Seven. The lights glimmer worse than what frightened insects can do, simultaneously blinking, and Rivers wants to go back to sleep and begin sinking. But fucking asshole he says. I am too busy for this.

Where is my mind?

He gets up and whispers eight to the referee, so Mason can hear it or at the very least, sense his apathy, the way he continues to grow despite his grapefruit wounds and pale complexion. Rivers rises like a giant in his shoulders walking away. Makes the number eight inside his gloves and shows everyone. Leans on the high rope like it’s the last open bar in Memphis and the bells ring again. Even marriage can never be this safe. Who are these people? They are getting even louder.

Round 5.