Boxing Academy Oracle
Let's workshop this poem about a boxing coach who, despite being an infamous hard ass, softens in his old age into someone trainees flock to instead of duck at all costs
scent of the day: Sawlaj, by Kajal. A bright and bitter effervescence from Amalfi lemon and bergamot there in the opening to lift its curry-cumin feel of Arabic armpit into out-and-proudness, this fragrance—one of the most prized in my collection (and would be among the greatest masterpieces of all time if it had real oakmoss)—has so many features that make it feel like a skankier version of vintage Bel Ami: earthy suede (almost like dirty moccasins) from the leather-patchouli combo, peppery clove from the carnation, sweet and sour greenery from the rose, animalic musk from the indolic jasmine—all supported by a vetiver-oakmoss soil of roots and grass over which, as if in a dreamscape, a coffee-cream fog of benzoin-amplified vanilla seems to hover.
Boxing Academy Oracle
Legendary over decades
for mortifying knit-pickery
justified as “toughening them up,”
coach iron fist dwindled—less
a matter of wisdom than fatigue—
into a koan machine
egged on by lap-averse trainees
savoring the no-stakes reprieve
of ungraspable oration.
