they said it was brave and gave me applause

after having tasted the concrete and the blood

i stood up.

they were impressed that i did not speak,

just looked back with what they called "cold steely eyes"

and smiled letting the blood drip from my mouth to the floor.

I wasn't stunned. Though the blow had sent me to the floor,

i had been prepared to accept the punishment,

for no man should utter and insult and not be prepared

to receive passionate retribution.

I was out of my body, seeing my face throb from the impact

but not feeling it,

hearing my opponents voice as he yelled yet not feeling it

disturb my presence in the least.

He was worried by then.

A fat middle-aged local who had had too much to drink

and had run his mouth all night until i had calmly

made a joke at his expense.

He looked at my eyes and saw that what was behind them

was not something he was accustomed to.

He saw the hunger there, the desire,

the indescribable will that a masochist has

when so enraptured by ecstatic pain.

He knew that he could do nothing to me,

because anything he could have done,

i would simply have enjoyed,

assimilating it to myself.

He gave up and paid for our drinks.

Then left.

That is the power of the gaze,

it is the gate way of the soul.