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Roadwork In The Boneyard
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© Paul Zarzyski. All rights reserved. These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Roadwork In The Boneyard, lyrics by Paul Zarzyski, from the forthcoming album, “SMALL TALK, BULLSHIT & LIES” by Peter O’Brien is now available on SoundCloud [click here]. Includes a link to the Homeless Poem, “Life So Far,” which gives title to “Roadwork In The Boneyard” and a prose excerpt from 51

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song lyric:

Roadwork in the Boneyard                                                                

            He does his roadwork in the boneyard
            Sixty-nine and in his prime
            Duckin’ the Grim Reaper’s hook
            Slippin’ jabs from Father Time.

            He does his roadwork in the boneyard
            Shadow boxing his own stone
            His epitaph reads Do or Die—
            Either way, you’re on your own.

                        You either weaken in your fifties
                        As you beg to be excused
                        Or order up another round
                        As you wine and dine the Muse.

            Though he’s damn afraid of dying
            He’s not one bit afraid of death
            He likes the coldest darkest nights
            Liquid silver in his breath.

            He’s the maestro of sweet science
            He’s the Einstein of the ring
            But time’s no longer relative
            With the vultures taking wing.

                        You either live for the hereafter
                        Help the churches fill their pews
                        Or revel in the here-‘n’-now
                           Skipping rope to delta blues.

             Rope-a-dope out in the boneyard
             Metal fence against his back
             He’s spitting in the eye of fear
             With each lightning flash and crack.

            Although death is all around him
            He feels closer to his birth
            Doing push-ups in the daisies
            Stealing kisses from the earth.

                        You either sink in ol’ self-pity
                        In that cesspool of cheap booze
                        Or cling to pugilistic youth
                        With a flurry of one-twos

                        Doing roadwork in the bone yard
                        Shadowboxing your own stone

                        Doing roadwork in the boneyard
                        Toe-to-toe with the unknown.

 
                                                For Skip Avansino and Joe Brown

excerpt from “51”:

…Seriously, I could far more easily see myself as a sumo wrestler than a tightrope walker.

Or perhaps a prize fighter? You’ve effected boxing focal points and/or metaphors in a number of your poems and lyrics, including the “Roadwork in the Boneyard” piece, from which you just read. Have you spent time in the ring?

A bunch of rings, but none of them a boxing ring. At least not in this life—so far. As a young boy I watched the Gillette Friday Night fights with Dad. Later I became a Muhammad Ali fan—to this day, he remains one of my heroes. I stand up and salute every time I’m reminded of what he said as part of his reasoning for refusing to be drafted—“No Vietnamese ever called me ‘nigger’.” I love Tom Russell’s song, “Muhammed Ali,” love the documentary film When We Were Kings. I’ve hung a heavy bag in the basement or garage of every place I’ve lived since moving to Montana in seventy-three. For cardiovascular purposes—to temper testosterone overloads, to take the edge off my Polish-Eye-talian-UniPoet-Hitman-angst. What can I say? Yoga alone doesn’t do it for me. And on the wages of poetry, I can’t afford Pilates classes or a Nordic Track. On May 2, 2009, I sat front row, right next to ring announcer Michael Buffer—Jack Nicholson, six rows behind me—at the MGM Grand Arena and watched Manny Pacquiao knock out Ricky Hatton in two action-packed rounds. Thanks to my friends Skip Avansino and Joe Brown—current and former Nevada State Boxing Commissioners, respectively—who became fans of my work at the Elko Cowboy Poetry Gathering. I don’t know if I need, or want, to defend my affection for such a brutal sport, other than to say I lean toward one-on-one competitions—writer against the blank page. And trust me, it will buck you off. It will counterpunch. It will bloody your nose and knock you on your ass and kick you in both the head and the heart. However, I’m fond of the phrase, of the terminology, employed when one fighter, usually of lesser prowess, is winning on the score cards because “he’s outworking his opponent.”  I like to think of myself as a poet of lesser skills who more often than not “outworks” the blank page.