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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=415096" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sporting Life</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=415096" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The trouble with comparing a poet with a radio is that radios don’t develop scar-tissue. The tubes burn out, or with a transistor, which most souls are, the battery or diagram burns out replaceable or not replaceable, but not like that punchdrunk fighter in the bar. The poet<br>Takes too many messages. The right to the ear that floored him in New Jersey. The right to say that he stood six rounds with a champion. <br>Then they sell beer or go on sporting commissions, or, if the scar tissue is too heavy, demonstrate in a bar where the invisible champions might not have hit him. Too many of them.<br>The poet is a radio. The poet is a liar. The poet is a counterpunching radio.<br>And those messages (God would not damn them) do not even know they are champions.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Jack+Spicer">Jack Spicer</a></strong></div>

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