Justin Razor and the World

Goldenrod Come embrace me/ I'm done explaining/ Myself to a bunch of pages/ Punching angry/ At a rusty hanging/ Bag, I'd rather run and face these/ Emotions with a hug and bravery/ Some would say these/ Feelings are dumb and angsty/ That I'm young and shaded/ Sheltered from the crazy/ Reality of the wasting/ Love you gave me/ I'm stumbling baby/ Crumbling, wavering/ Unsettled by the dust that's caking/ Over my heart, trust is breaking/ This isnt lust thats taking/ Over, it's the crush I've tasted/ Its deep, bundled hasty/ Together, it's got me wondering, pacing/ Back and forth/ Back to your/ Arms, laughter pours/ Smacking torn/ Promises around, I'm after more/ Like we said, the tragic force/ That powers storms/ Like this is magic, sure/ But it has a bored/ Nature, jumping at the core/ At enrapture for/ Someone new, disaster forms/ As we're dancing towards/ A coward's shore/ From the ocean we'

Punching Through Obscurity My eyelids are sagging like a 90's throwback, and my countenance is just as slack. Alice In Chains is serenading me through the speakers, Layne Staley switching on a dime between tortured, soulful crooning and agonizing, powerful wailing revitalizes me, beckoning me to escape this fatigued somnambulance. I've been pushing myself through punishing 2 a day boxing workouts lately. They both indulge my fistic passions as well as fortify my drunkenness on what some would deem a pipe dream. Lately, I've had designs on competing as an amateur, and the admission of this has drawn hesitant encouragement tempered with well meaning caution at best, and outright ridicule at worst. I've been told I'm too old, not skilled enough, lack experience, and have my head lodged firmly in the stratosphere. The thing is, I know these condescensions to be factual. I wish I would've invested far more effort in my adolescence. When

More Drunken Rambling About My Journey In Physical Culture The act of training with limited means, both physically and nutritionally, has always fascinated me. During the 1940's, men like John Grimek, Clancy Ross, Steve Reeves and George Eifermann made astonishing gains during wartime, both stateside and overseas, on relatively minuscule diets, if not calorically than restoratively. John Grimek lived for awhile on bread and coffee during The Great Depression, while Steve Reeves improvised on leg day by squatting for hundreds of reps with a 100 pound barbell, the sole equipment available to him during World War 2. Perhaps this explains my oft ridiculed and mocked affinity for the routines of convicts. At sea, I feasted on volumes that inadvertently extolled the apparent virtues of incarceration for bodybuilding purposes because they both inspired and sustained me through lengthy maritime separations from civilization. In Jailhouse Strong by Adam Benshea an

804 Morality is a guide for a steady, law abiding life. The question becomes after a certain point, exactly what laws am I heeding? Personally, I pay scarce attention to the laws of Man. Throughout my career and in my adolescence, I've witnessed "superiors" escape consequences for actions that my peers or subordinates wouldve been crucified for solely because of their position or rank. I firmly believe that authority, when based on bureaucracy rather than true supremacy, physical or mental, is irrelevant, and immediately hard to swallow. So when those supposed leaders and lords openly and publicly flaunt their immunity to the rules and regulations that you're supposedly enslaved by, a coup is in definite order. My greatest mentors have been those men and women that never demanded respect, simply because it was expected and willingly given by merely standing in their presence. They were usually jaded and experienced, but never bitter; such

A Pressing Question Tonight marked my return to the grappling arena. As expected, my BJJ skills, though rusty and unrefined, allowed me to weather the chaotic storm of facing the untrained fighter. The beautiful thing about technique in any art is that it provides a precise weapon, an accuracy that focuses and guides your raw, bludgeoning strength. The downside, however, is that, unless you train enough to truly engrain the skill in your muscles, your mind will always remain conscious of your performance on some level. This is natural and expected in the first few weeks or months of mastering a movement. However, if you train infrequently, like Ive been forced to by circumstance regarding BJJ, your progress is stagnated by a previously helpful natural process. Placed into perspective, my opponent tonight was a 21 year old, 210 pound ox. He'd had no prior training, and was hardly a threat, but his unremarkable martial education led to an unpredictable bo

I Miss My Uniform Hawaii, aside from where I'm employed, is gorgeous. I'll admit that my sartorial leanings, however, have fallen by the wayside, due to both circumstance and laziness. I struggle valiantly against the omniscient tropical breeze, clad in Levi's and cowboy boots. During the relatively calmer winter and autumn months I'd don a beanie or black denim trucker jacket. These would only last a few hours however, as the temperature would invariably rise and I'd once again be forced to strip by the overbearing warmth. It hums and errs continuously in the background like an efficient A/C unit, prodding and poking, reminding me that the lowest the thermometer will ever drop is to the iconic 75, with the sun an assumed afterthought. As my time draws ever thinner here, I've allowed my mind the privilege and indulgence of fantasizing about the battlegear Ill once again be garbed in. There are many benefits to living where others vaca

Bulletin Confidence is narcissism, setting healthy boundaries is sensitivity, and justified anger is unbearable overreacting. The way I walk was and is termed Invisible Lat Syndrome, even though I was and am larger, leaner and stronger at a lower bodyweight than my detractors were at their higher ones. My bookish nature deems me socially awkward, despite the fact that I was the one starting conversations with future friends and romantic prospects at bars while my temporary group sat silently in the corner, pathetically admiring their pitiful reflections in the oscillating murk of their happy hour draft beers. And now I'm evidently stained with the disease of misogyny. Nevermind the scores of women that have come to me privately, completely absent any coaxing by me, to safely confide their stories of sexual assault and abuse. Despite the fact that I hail from a family where women far outnumber men in both the Maternal and Paternal lines, and either of my