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UFC FUEL TV Results
Fri May 25, 2012 3:08 pm by Anonymous
UFC FUEL TV Results
Fighters
Str
TD
Sub
Pass
Method
Rnd
Time
Replay
WINChan Sung Jung
Dustin Poirier
74
56
4
0
3
0
3
1
R4
Submission 4 of 5 00:01:07 --
WINAmir Sadollah
Jorge Lopez
36
32
1
4
1
0
0
2
R3
Decision - Split 3 of 3 00:05:00 --
WINDonald Cerrone
Jeremy Stephens
87
46
1
0
0
0
0
…
[ Full reading ]
Fighters
Str
TD
Sub
Pass
Method
Rnd
Time
Replay
WINChan Sung Jung
Dustin Poirier
74
56
4
0
3
0
3
1
R4
Submission 4 of 5 00:01:07 --
WINAmir Sadollah
Jorge Lopez
36
32
1
4
1
0
0
2
R3
Decision - Split 3 of 3 00:05:00 --
WINDonald Cerrone
Jeremy Stephens
87
46
1
0
0
0
0
…
[ Full reading ]
Comments: 1
As a woman...about the UFC who i want to win
Fri May 25, 2012 3:18 pm by Anonymous
[b]As a woman...about the UFC who i want to win
Stefan-Struve OMG he is sooo cute....yes my female hormones pick the fighter!!
Skill Breakdown
Charts are compiled based on results from all fights.
Total Fights: 11
Record: 27-5-0
Summary: kickboxing and submissions
Fighter Info
Nickname: Skyscraper
…
[ Full reading ]
Stefan-Struve OMG he is sooo cute....yes my female hormones pick the fighter!!
Skill Breakdown
Charts are compiled based on results from all fights.
Total Fights: 11
Record: 27-5-0
Summary: kickboxing and submissions
Fighter Info
Nickname: Skyscraper
…
[ Full reading ]
Comments: 1
Short history of the UFC
Fri May 25, 2012 2:57 pm by Anonymous
What is MMA and the UFC?
Originating from the full contact sport of Vale tudo in Brazil, the UFC was created in the United States in 1993 with minimal rules, and was promoted as a competition to determine the most effective marital art for unarmed combat situations.
It wasn't long before the …
[ Full reading ]
Originating from the full contact sport of Vale tudo in Brazil, the UFC was created in the United States in 1993 with minimal rules, and was promoted as a competition to determine the most effective marital art for unarmed combat situations.
It wasn't long before the …
[ Full reading ]
Comments: 0
Social bookmarking
Diving into the Wreck
Page 1 of 1
Diving into the Wreck
by Adrienne Rich
First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.
There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.
I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.
First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.
And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.
I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed
the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and away into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.
This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he
whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass
We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.
First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.
There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.
I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.
First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.
And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.
I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed
the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and away into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.
This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he
whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass
We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.
Page 1 of 1
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