I'll lift the ghosts of goats come cow tow me
I'll lift the spirit of at least Aleister Crowley
Niggaz allow me
Athena screams at my rally
I'll snap my fingers, “vamous” Silicon Valley
Devil's Angel to the many
God's Wrath to the few
More Bel-Air than bellicose, Anthony Joshua sauntered into Madison Square Garden on June 1 with an air and cacophony of “I'm the shit” coursing through his veins before being belled by a Wall of Street guacamole in the form of Andy Ruiz Jr. These are seasons of words — if not war porn, for your sojourn.
Eerily graceful, the “Spectre” of AJ arrives inn concert with James Bond #007 and “No Time To Die”, to which Ruiz might saddle up in a pair of Beats By Dre headphones rocking “What a Time to Be Alive” by Drake. Here, “conspiracy theory” meets the preamble of “Yeah, right MF”. Prelims is up, fix your head for seduction; for chance will succomb to a grinding suction, or change will become a glorious assumption. If ever it is that they, the dark, decides to wear ugly Cloaks N Daggers' in the night, it would be unwise of the bright to not wear stylish cloaks and gather in the light.
Determined to unearth a muscular Lazarus for a refurbished and more sinewy Sampson, enter Harold Knight and his league of “The Shadow”. Understand I'm biased here, as my own childhood guardian angel from Plainfield, NJ now wrestles with the arrested development of what was an adolescent posing as “The Man” at heavyweight. The best liars almost always tell the truth, as if the best picture ensconsed in secrets right in front of our eyes. Conjuring the spirit of Emanuel Stewart and the same iron elixir sipped by Lennox Lewis, Joshua should present a WD-40'd Frank Bruno, as opposed to who you didn't know was Primo Carnera with a pen pal named The Tin Man.
And so it is we descend on Dirayah, Saudi Arabia for “Clash on The Dunes” presented by Matchroom Boxing and Eddie Hearn on DAZN…
..where Joshua and the entire boxing universe awaits Andy Ruiz, Taco Bell on a Camel, to find out if he's capable of another Southwestern Salad tossing with vitriol. I imagine a ringwalk featuring some semblance of a Pillsbury Canelo talking bout, “We don't fuck around in Mexico.” Because the stakes are so very high, it says here that his steaks thrown will be sublime. All that's riding on this redux is a filled up Azteca Stadium war with Tyson Fury or Deontay Wilder and the liberation of every cartel-free soccer field in Mexico, Central and South America.
This is for the heavyweight championship of the world in the highest sense, maybe ever, for it’s 1969 again. The world still knew Muhammad Ali as Cassius Clay imprisoned by Creed well before the Apollo of Zeus. This is a verbose El Chapo vs the Lords of London in a mouthpiece, in front of a now visible monolith on an oasis in the sand dunes of Arabia. All I know is Jasmine hopes Aladdin wins.