There are times
when I want to mash a nose
with my fist.   I don’t ever do it,
but I want to, and I refuse
to say I do not on occasion
want to.

There are times
when the face I am longing to punch
matters, times when it
does not.  Times when I see it clearly,
the whole punch, the spray, the tumble;
other times when I can only see
my wind up, my cocking arm.

There are times when I am righteous
about the target and the choice of blow
before I swing
and times when I just want
to smash a cheekbone, anyone’s really,
and explain it away afterward to a crowd 
who will sympathize and agree and no one
will do a damn thing to me
and untouched I’ll head on back
to the enviable noir lair I call home.

I feel the blows coming up
from my balls to my hands
and I want to mash a face.
I never do it.  I just want to.
I don’t know why this happens.
I keep it to myself, mostly.

But not talking about it at all?
Keeping it under wraps, away from
polite company, my social 
networks, my political discourses?

It feels like a swallowed horse
bucking in panic.  Feels like
the highway rising up and down,
a popular ropes workout.  Feels like
Godzilla’s come a-rolling.  
Feels like I’m going to 
mash a face and not 
stop
there.