The Faux Pas Press #103
Fighting Man
By Jason Fresh
"I stand upon the low and the high grounds," says the American Fighting Man, "and raise my arms to heaven asking for surrender, a release. Our people want this karma - I will give it to them." Our fighting man pretends to close his eyes when the light shines down brightly, he pretends to know his destiny by denying his deepest desires. Like Skywalker he waits for the stars to beckon, to direct him. He then finds himself in the midst of a swamp only to be directed by a Spencer W. Kimball looking creature - green with pointed ears and shit. He rejects the hero's journey, balks at the mound only to find himself recruited by a rebellion that needs him. Let me ask you something? If the heroes are needed so desperately then why do we not praise them? Why has the support disappeared when they need us most? "I've got to face this monster alone. All I get are some damn messenger pigeons or spirit guides or some goddamn apparition of Moroni." I must master my life. I must master myself. And sometimes I need to go within myself and discover what I have forgotten. And I must go this spirit voyage alone - a warrior of light transcending the light, a real dickhead to the rest of the world, a sonofabitch. Just me and my gay-ass computer bag, just me and my dumb little computer, just me, my balls, and warped image of reality. Today, I will practice the seventh straight day of yoga. Not doing the Bikram shit today - must preserve my energy for tomorrow. But I sing praise to the American Fighting Man who bleeds and bleeds and bleeds for this machine grinding gears spitting out destruction across the globe, posturing for a bunch of dickless spectators in dark rooms. We can redeem their karma. You don't have to ask us to get off the cross. You put us here. Today, I practice in the sacred spaces for all to see. I do this for the American Fighting Man. May he live forever in me, may the righteous and victorious dead be honored by my breath. And if not - may they laugh at ridiculous attempts from their hollowed graves. New portholes open. Now!
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