If pain is a pot of boiling water, humor can be the rising steam.
The words he said, too, must be human enough to bleed.
A poet could kill the dead.
Poets, like fighters, both reap the benefits of roadwork.
We give up our backs and allow religious myths to apply the rear naked choke to our minds.
Stories do not change, only the lives they live in do.
Like forearm veins, my interests spread in different directions and eventually led to the hands, to writing.
My next fight would not be measured in rounds, but throughout a lifetime. It would sustain and fulfill me longer than anything in the cage could. My opponent, my fight, would be against the slipping aspects of American society.
...real childhood scars heal, but not when band-aids replace self-reflection.
How can I stand before you in silent symbols with open palms?
The more inhuman we became the more we understood each other as humans.
Fights begin and end with handshakes.
We were of thirteen minds, like a tree, in which there is one Red-tail and eleven squirrel parts.
To live meant feeding my former self to my current self.
The historic beauty of BJJ rests not with its ability to allow a smaller man to maim a larger man, but with its ability to allow any man of any size to survive.