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A Taste of Pennies Bathes the Tongue

Aug 02, 2026

Here’s a short FREE lyric essay between regular installments. It’s a literary left hook, but it ain’t no sucker punch.

The blood-stained canvas holds a manifest allure for those who step through the ropes and expose themselves to the unrelenting force of an opponent who likewise seeks transcendence in the chaos of combat.

It’s not about self-defense. Nor is it about beating the crap out of someone for money. Deep in the human psyche, ingrained in our culture and genes, lies a primordial need to assert self-determination, if not dominance, and survive. Inscrutable to the uninitiated, the precepts of taking a punch endure as a rite of passage, a hallowed touchstone of temperament and mettle. To understand the seduction and the acceptance of such violence, quite apart from meting it out, one must explore the visceral experience of being hit — in the face.

When fist collides with flesh, a bolt of lightning detonates behind the recipient’s eyeballs. The punch lands, the world spins like a carnival ride, and within a suspended fraction of time — getting “clocked” — the boundaries of ego vanish. Everything is one.

Everybody’s got a plan until they get punched in the face.¹

The moment of impact is an awakening. An astonished mind snaps to attention, a heightened state of consciousness. A cocktail of agony and adrenaline pours through the body. Coruscating pinpricks of light come in syncopated bursts like the popping flashes of paparazzi. The pain is a vortex, a familiar friend welcomed the way a drowning man ultimately accepts the sea, until all in an instant, life’s transience, the fragility of existence, is cast into stark relief. It’s clear: you are alive! This is no time for a ten-count nap. Ding ding goes the bell.

Next round: Like an ancient oak, the thickly corded neck withstands a barrage of artillery until a howitzer right hook to the jaw connects. A taste of pennies bathes the tongue. You’ve seen the camera dramatize what, too fast, escapes the naked eye: grimace, whiplash, a dynamic deformation of jowls freeze-framed.

Comes a body blow, and the thud of a butcher’s mallet turns legs into concrete pillars sinking in mud. Thus, a maelstrom of contusions is a humbling reminder of mortality. But the impetus to push past this calamity, this insult, fosters defiance and fuels a determination to flout the inevitable. Yet another angry hornet sting precedes the swing of a wrecking ball that slams home, incurring a debt to be repaid with compound interest and the punishing artistry of a portrait painted with merciless strokes of celadon, mauve, and puce.

Beyond physicality, pugilists are philosophers of the squared ring. Their “sweet science” relies on tactics and logic. Their contests are brutal, but the contestants are not necessarily brutes. A boxer’s dance with pain inures as an existential battle against the self as much as an opponent. So, as fists fly, fighters balance their capacities for vengeance with resilience and restraint because, when that sharpened sense of self-awareness ebbs toward unconscious, so, too, does the contest approach its end. But in the meantime, a fighter understands that to be punched in the face, even to contemplate its rude certainty in the ring, is to confront raw vulnerability; for in the crucible of combat, they expose and confront their innermost demons. Therein lies the true test of their skills.