Letters to Jack Johnson from Joe Frazier

Been boxing too,

Philly fools got two left feet,

wonder how I hit hard with no practice,

I tells them luck, but truth is

when the slaughterhouse turn quiet and manager gone,

I’m surrounded by armies of departed livestock.

I introduce my fists to hanging ribs

and feel spirits moving bout me,

dance like it’s midnight,

swing hard when blood reach my eye.

Tokyo, Japan, 1964

Jack,

Buster beat me but beat himself in turn,

now I’m burning foreign roads

swinging Civil Rights at the clouds,

trying to unearth the gold in this medal.

They calling my left hook a train,

say it make a man meet his maker,

hump the canvas like a wet dream.

New York, NY, February 16, 1970

Jack,

At Madison Square,

in a sixteen by sixteen square,

Ellis’s face found the square grill

of a round glove,

pitched a tent on the mat,

cried uncle from a wooden stool.