Fists a Flying; draft #4

I step into the ring fists a flying
blood stained ropes
splotch covered canvas
smashed mouth and I'm shaken all my body through
falling backward and then bouncing off the ropes
back g-forces whipping sweat off my face
like a dog shaking off water after a torrential downpour.
No time to ask myself what's the fighting for.

I turn and face a battle royale where everyone's against me.
Eyes lean forward as my mind leans backward:
remembering that once I saw the finish line
as a mirage rising murky on the highway,
and drank deep from a dreamworks spigot
fading in and out
coming round about
circles in swirls
hot tub thermostat shoots to the moon
120 degrees
so hot it burns.