That Smell Model

ey, what is that smell

walking off the prestine grass,
bandaged and brusied, with a slight limp
toward a counsel of elders
pinching their noses,
at the cost of reputation for their pawns.

Bright lights and brown dirt,
it gets between the teeth
and irritates like a popcorn kernel
the sweat flows from my forehead,
but one drop does not smell alone.

Grouping together for that one push,
22 bodies pressed together
we should faint if not for our stubborn demeanor,
we're lucky the grass is already green.

when the ball touches the try,
we raise our arms in victory,
and the crowd gasps and groans,
by the smell of victory.

That win, the feeling of supremacy
is lost on the bus ride home,
we all reminisce of the try that won the game,
and loathe the trip home with our companions or wretched odor.

We scurry to the shower
unwavering in our bashful masculinity,
to counter our stench with aromatic perfume.
Vomit is not uncommon, but discouraged before
the cascading water.

That smell of rugby.

Poetry...Poem?

Today a poem should strip away the clothes of the contrived working man. It should devolve the clean shaven, kempt, politically correct, briefcase tossing man into a beared neandertal. Rip the souls out from the polished black leather shows and have him feel every jagged stone he steps on and how much it hurts when it pieces the flesh. All in all, it should make him feel again.

A poem should talk about life and pain, death and joy, indifference and ignorance. A poem should derive its passion from the subdued emotions most of us take for granted. A poem should rekindle old love, and new lusts. the uncensored David, the cloistered Mary, the wind that whips like a slavemaster around the waist and leaves a deep scar.

A poem can make a stoic man cry. To break down the Iron Curtain and add white and blue to the sea of red. It can liberate a people who for so long wanted to write their own name or just know what it is, then revise it into a silhouette of past tribulations. A poem inspires the illiterate to read and the literate to teach. It crushes the burden of Ionic pillars and elevates the yeoman to heroic reputations.

Once it has been interpreted, a poem should be buried and die. Giving a void for new poems to inspire the new yeoman. The gravestone should be as ambiguous as its context and the poem will lie and wait for transubstatiation into another body. Like a lone spider in the corner of the shower, waiting to be acknowledged before its inevitable drowning. To circumvent the drain with the water as it sings a drunken sailors song, before entering into the black fluid abyss.

A poem is the only antidote to supremacy, the lone potion to wash aside Marx and Locke and touch the heart like an aesthetic hand. The perfect concoction of cologne and perfume, transexual and open-minded, from San Fransico to Austin. To shoot down a crow to fix its broken wing. To clear the fog or the blinders from the race horse, and settle down in the middle of the track and stare at the audience who scream is their dispare.

A poem is water. To extinguish the burning flame of fascism, revitalize the parched lips of an old mother wasting away in a hospital bed. A cool refreshing glass when one is hot under the cap. A place where animals of all sorts set their animal instincts aside bathe in the swimming whole. without it, to die of thirst and have intestons break like dust.

When drums were barrels, religion was bread, fishing was made by hand, and music was lightning, every woman was Cleopatra.

Poetry wasn't poetry.

Poetry is the dispair in our lives, the weight of lead pressed against the back of our necks. The feeling of thousands of papers on our chest and the relief when they are down to the last one. Poetry is our fathers, the Gunpowder Plot, and for those who are not, forgot, or even if they are, the everlasting lust of better. or for worse. But the striving to burden ourselves with others so that we may feel what other are feeling. have felt. Poetry stops the heart, and pumps the chest until blood flows like a small stream towards a river.

Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Tyranny of the Minority

            Looking to the sky, most of the skinless zombies waited for some sort of benevolent object to fall from the sky and aid them in their suffering. If they weren’t watching the planes they were either asking for names or lying motionless. The sky was still dark and the only real evidence of the planes was the low humming sound coming from over the horizon. The engine of the planes grew louder and louder and soon they were close enough that even those who were once asking for the whereabouts of their loved ones couldn’t help but give the planes the time of day. Now the only sound was the burning of timber, the occasional crumble of some fractured edifice, or the screams of the soon dead. Some of the fortunate families emerged from their shelters to see the rotting world around them, but for them, the planes gave the same hope as it did for the skinless zombie dragging his decomposed leg. Now nearly all of the survivors were looking through the settled dust and the red glow of the sky. Large objects begin to fall from the sky and most of us were so delirious we began to run toward them. I never saw a care package explode before.

            We scattered like children playing tag, trying to find some sort of safety. As I was running I saw Mr. Johnson staring at the horizon, watching the bombs explode destroying row after row of suburban homes. It was the greatest show on earth. I grabbed his shoulder’s and yelled, “Run, you god damn fool!” Déjà vu, all over again. He snapped from his trance and we began running down the main route away from the school and jumped through the yards of fire trying to get back to our shelters. Running through the yards I could feel the rubber on the soul of my shoe begin to melt from the intense heat. As we ran down the road we saw some other survivors funnel into a bomb shelter by the church. We looked at each other and without a word knew that was the only place that we could go. Personally, I’d rather die with many than live with nothing. We ran across the street from the yard we were standing in, and as the bombs became closer I thought that I wasn’t going to be able to make it. We started to slam on the rusted iron door of the bomb shelter screaming, “Let us in, let us in! Please for the love of God let us in!”. The door flung open and a figure from the darkness grabbed both of us with both of its hands and threw us to the cement ground. That was the first time I had been in a church in twenty years. The last time was when I married you.

            The ground shook violently and the sound was like a thousand freight trains going passed all at once. I covered my head and curled up into the fetal position. The violence of the quake was terrifying. But then as soon as it came, it stopped. I did not want to move, I was pretty sure then that I was dead. I wish I was dead. One can only go through so much petrifying experiences before he takes his own life. When I began to regain composure, the sounds of crying echoed off the cement walls, the smell of urine and feces from those who had soiled themselves mixed with the sounds of agony and burnt flesh. I can’t remember if I was crying or not, I wish I was, but at least I knew I had pissed myself, so I was still alive after all. But if I had known that I was going to spend the next 21 days there, I would have stopped by the house to get another pair of jeans.

            The Colonel had locked Marcus in the holding cell. The holding cell was a small room with no windows, not even a slit of light came through the crack between the door and the cement floor. Marcus sat up and rested his head against the wall, his wrists ached from the tension of the ropes. He rubbed his hands over his face and could tell that there was fresh blood pouring from his forehead. Someone must have hit him with the butt end of their gun because it was a precise gash. He ripped off a piece of cloth from around his waist and tied it around his forehead. He sat there, awaiting for his captors to bring him before the mercy of the King.

            Marcus was fearful of the King. He knew that this could most likely be the last days of his life. The king was notorious for executing many who had done far less than he had done. But on the other hand, no one in his village had even seen the king before. Although many of the villagers at Sashaport had drawn caricatures of the king, most of the time it was a fat, cross-eyed buffoon who had shot himself in the foot with his own gun. Marcus sat in his cell, thinking about what he would say to the king, or if he would be able to say anything at all.

            Soon the door flung open and a large guard’s silhouette engrossed the doorway, “Time to go”, he said in his baritone voice. Marcus got up and walked out of his cell. He was blinded by the light. But the noise, the sounds of cars, steal, and machinery were so loud he wondered how he could not have heard them from his cell. When he was younger, Marcus used to be able to hear their faint sounds, but he had no idea that they were this excruciatingly loud.

            Once Marcus was able to see, the guard marched him from his cell down to the ground floor of the prison. The guard was almost seven feet tall and muscular. His hair was short and well kempt. He wore a bullet proof vest and helmet, but the vest barely fit him. Marcus wondered if he had any kids. “

“A man that sized should never have sex unless the woman is just as masculine”, Marcus thought.

As he walked passed, he wondered how many people were in the prison, it could have been overcrowded or desolate.

“Prisoner number 0204022, ready for trial” said the guard through his radio. “Hey, how’s the forehead Marcus?” he mockingly asked Marcus. Marcus’ head whipped around in shock that he knew his name. The guard let out a booming laughter. Marcus turned around and walked through the iron gates towards the guards waiting for him outside the holding prison. The guards outside the prison were much smaller and feebler. They did not wear anything bullet proof but the helmets. The strapped iron shackles around his feet and wrists and walked him outside of the prison, his next stop was the Kingdom Court. They took Marcus and put him in a secured cell on the back of a SUV. Marcus had never seen an SUV before, had no idea what it was or how it worked. But it explained the noise. It was loud, and the gasoline filled his nostrils so that he couldn’t breathe. But he did have a window. The world he was looking at as the car was rattling across the broken pavement was like a world he had never seen before. The buildings near touched the sky, there were no trees, only plains of asphalt and cement, there was no rivers, streams, or ponds, no animals but only insects, many insects. As Marcus looked, gazing at the unfamiliar world, he saw some villagers below the overpass. They were cleaning up the filth of the kingdom. He did not know what village they were from, but they were wearing metal chainmail and steal armor. They couldn’t have been the king’s men because there was an overseer standing behind them with an ax.

“Who would have thought punishment was stricter inside the Kingdom Gates.” Marcus jokingly said, with a hint of sincerity.

Chapter 2

Marcus was being carried like a pig being prepared for a roast. The only thing missing was an apple, but instead it was replaced by a rope. His jaw was pried open and his hands bound behind his back, tied to a large post. His face was not far from the ground as they carried him. Each time the horses climbed up the ridge toward the mainland his faced would scratch alone the dirt and stone.

            Marcus studied his captors and their demeanor as they climbed the steep ridge. Their faces were stern and stoic, fear from their commander kept them from deviating from the strict form he demanded from them. Marcus knew what it was like to have an overbearing weight of uniformity and unvarying consistency from when the village elders taught him how to hunt.

“One must never talk louder than trees”, Marcus thought. That was a basic rule. If you deviated from it, you would be punished by not eating. But that was only because there would be nothing to eat. As Marcus swayed between the horses, he recalled the obedient nature that both he and his captors shared. Before Marcus was blessed with being a village hunter, he endured a long test of becoming skilled and experienced. Before he was ten, Gregory, an elder hunter, gave him his first bow. The smooth polished wood, the slight tension when he pulled it back, and the violent snap when he released the string, were once so beautiful but have now become second nature. He had taken for granted the splendor of the bow. Humans have a habit for loving the novel, and ignoring the given.

Marcus was not native to the village. He came from Frederickton, a larger village just outside the Kingdom Gates. The people there were white and all spoke a dialect of English. They were a privileged township because they were able to have books. Reading was strictly forbidden in the Kingdom’s realm. Yet in Frederickton they were able to read books that the King allowed. Nobody knew who the King was or what he looked like, usually that information stayed within the iron gates. But the towns did know when it was a forgiving king or a ruthless king because of the privileges or restrictions that would be placed open them. One could only plead that they were born in an era of a forgiving king, but Marcus was not that fortunate.

Marcus was just seven years old when he was banished from Frederickton. His father whom he barely knew had killed a king’s village Vanguard. Vanguard’s were more like wardens than representatives of the villages. The Vanguard had raped Marcus’ mother while the men were tending the mines for the month. His wife wept and told him that the Vanguard had raped her, Marcus’ father stormed toward the Vanguard who was observing the villagers in the village courtyard. His father rampaged toward the Vanguard, screaming a warrior’s battle cry. His father tackled him and the two tumbled to the ground. His father was large and strong. His shoulders were broad and his chest was burly, the Vanguard was much weaker than him. With his knee on his chest his father beat him with a large rock. Before the other officers could intervene and pull Marcus’ father off of the Vanguard, his father took the Vanguard’s gun out of his holster and shot him in the forehead. No one in the village had ever heard the sound of a firearm before. Many of the villagers came running out of their homes a saw the blood splatter on the ground and the Vanguard lying motionless. The officers came running toward the Vanguard and drew their weapons, aiming them at Marcus’ father. Their red dots looked like scattering insects on his father’s chest. Before they could shoot him, Marcus’ father put the gun up to his chin and shot himself, the blood squirting out of his head like a geyser. His mother tried to run to him, just to hold him one last time, but the officers grabbed her and threw her to the ground and bound her. As his motionless body lay on the ground, the officers grabbed the body of the Vanguard and wrapped it in a white cloth. Then they tied the dead body of Marcus’ father and tied it to the flagpole in the center of the courtyard, raising him up like a flag, and then each had their turn with target practice. An officer had taken Marcus and forced him to watch his father be mercilessly torn by the inertia of their bullets. Marcus did not cry, he watched the faces of all the officers. They were distraught. With vengeance they each unloaded a clip of ammunition into Marcus’ father. That was the last time Marcus saw either of his parents. His mother was executed in the Kingdom’s Court for conspiracy to harm a King’s agent. All acts are considered hereditary. Whether or not a family lineage survives depends on the King’s ruling. Many families have disappeared or been executed, usually in the presence of other villages to make examples. Many times, during ages of forgiving Kings, parents are executed and the orphans banished to remote villages far away from the Kingdom gates. Or they are left somewhere in the wilderness, either to survive or be consumed.  Marcus was banished to the low lying village by at the edge of the sea where most convicts and the “social tribulations” live, Sashaport.

Writing Schedule

When I can write:
(all PM)
Monday - 4:30-7:00
Tuesday: 12:00-3:00
Wednesday: 4:30-7:00
Thursday: 12:00-3:00
Friday- No free time.
Saturday: 11am-3:00
Sunday:*Maybe 4:30-8:00

I hereby solemnly swear to adhere to my schedule rigorously, exceptions not included.

Novella draft

Chapter 1: And All the King’s Men

            The world turned white. The flash washed over the landscape and blanketed the soil with a bright heat. The sound of the incineration of steal, timber, and flesh radiated for a brief second before the gentle silence exploded through the room like an unwelcome guest. The beauty of the mushroom cloud was as gruesome of the melted flesh of its victims, falling off the bones like lamb meat. The trees were uprooted and thrown like titans tossing javelins. I was the rat underground, hiding. That’s where I was when the world changed. Where were you? Where are you?

            Holding his bow, Marcus crouches through the dry marsh grass. The soil is wet and rich and during the rainy season the grass grows so long that it covers even the tallest of men. The pack of deer has been feeding around his village for the past three days but none of the hunters have been able to track them until now. Off in the distance Marcus spots a lone deer. It is a young buck, not yet full grown, not yet able to live on his own. He knows that the mother is near by and if he’s lucky there will be more. He quietly scampers back to his makeshift canoe and paddles through the marshland to a closer location.

            He paddles through the maze of interconnected marshland waters and comes to an isthmus. Crouching like a sly predator he raises his head above the brush to spot the lone deer. There a four now. The largest an old buck, strong and bold, and he is looking over the young calf as it grazes in the bushes. Marcus grabs an arrow from his pack and places it gently on the nocking point. Getting onto one knee he lines up his trajectory through the sight window. As he slowly exhales, he releases. The arrow sails through the slight breeze and hits the deer slightly above its windpipe. The buck jumps and the other deer scatter and gallop away from Marcus. Marcus jumps into his canoe and paddles toward the land of his prey. The trail of blood leads up a well marked path that many hunters had been tracking for a long while. He sees the old buck lying down in the bushes, still alive, but only slightly. Marcus grabs his knife and puts it up to the neck of the deer.  “Be plentiful, for my people. The King shall not eat your flesh”, he recites, the blood spills onto the ground and Marcus carries the carcass to his canoe.

            By the time Marcus had arrived back to the village, the sun had already begun to set. The other hunters had all arrived back to the village a few hours ago. A large figured was standing at the docking point at the edge of the river.

“I see that you had success, friend.” said Niambe. “Looks like we’re going to have a great feast.”  Niambe was a well known hunter around the village. He was tall and well built. His sable skin did not resemble the kindness of his heart.

“How did the other hunters do?” asked Marcus.

“Some had success. Some did not. It is what it always has been, the veterans must be the most reliable, because the young cannot be counted upon.” Niambe laughed, and Marcus gave a sympathetic smile. Niambe helped Marcus carry his catch out of the canoe and into the village.

            The sound of the drums echoed in the distance, the feast had already begun. When Marcus arrived back at the village the sky was dark, but the village was bright with the fevering red glow of the bon-fire. Many of the villagers were dancing in circles around the fire while the masked drummers beat sticks upon the leather drum skins. When the villagers saw Marcus carrying the deer around his neck, they greeted him with cheers and many congratulated him with a slap on the back or a kiss on the cheek.

            Marcus brought the deer to the chieftain, Zion. Zion was a thin, old man. No one knew his real age, but he was certainly the eldest. He sat in a chair made of driftwood and reeds under a roof of mud and straw.  He was fair skinned and his face was wrinkled. His rustled hair flowed down his back and was knotted at its end. The only clothing he wore was a long fur coat that was tied with a rope around his waist, underneath was skin. Zion’s eyes could pierce human flesh like a thrusted spear. Marcus placed the deer at his feet and Marcus went to his knees and bowed his head. Zion examined the deer, putting his finger into the hole that arrow formed. Zion placed his hand on Marcus’ head.

            “Did you bless this creature?” Zion asked.

            “I did, chieftain”, obediently replying Marcus.

            “Then it is ready. Juveniles, take this creature and prepare it for the feast.” Three young men pick up the deer and carry it out of their presence.

            “Marcus, I trust that you did not venture into Kingdom Grounds when you were hunting?” asked Zion.

            “I did, chieftain. But it was only because I knew the deer were there and I did not know if the other hunters would be successful”, pleaded Marcus.

            “No.” Zion yelled slamming his fist onto the armrest, “You mustn’t ever go there. If they catch you, you will be killed by the king’s men! If you disobey again I will be forced to punish you.”

            “May I speak freely, forgiving chieftain”, said Marcus.

            “You may.” said Zion, slowly relaxing into his wooden chair.

            Getting to his feet, “The imperialists have invaded our land. They should make concessions to us. But, since they have not, I will continue to hunt on my land. I will not kill any creatures beyond the iron gates, but so long as my people need food, I will hunt on my land” argued Marcus.

            “Young hunter”, getting out of his chair and putting his hand on his shoulder, “I know your fever. Since the invaders of occupied these lands we have been like fish in a net. But we must live. We are small in numbers, but we are growing. But you, as well as I, know that we are a fragile village. We cannot afford to lose anyone, especially our strongest hunter. You must obey me, for the sake of the village.”

            Marcus knew he was right, he could not avoid the truth.

            “I apologize for my tone, chieftain.” Said Marcus.

            “Marcus, you need not to apologize…”.

            Suddenly there is a large yell from the villagers. Niambe came running toward Marcus with a bow in his hand.

            “Zion, the imperialists have entered through the gates and wish to speak to you”, said Niambe, nearly out of breath.

            “Tell them if they wish to speak to me, they can do so, but they must leave their weapons at the gates.” Said Zion sternly.

            Niambe ran off into the darkness. Marcus ran after Niambe to aid him in his confrontation. As he ran, Marcus noticed that the drummers were still playing, although no one was dancing. The imperialists appeared to be large, although it was difficult to assume because they wore so much armor. The Colonel and his five commanders were riding on their horses, the rest of them were on foot. They wore white helmets and metal plated chest armor. It was heavy and thick, no spear could pierce their plates. Their legs were just as covered, and their boots were polished black and had a steel toe. They had better weapons than the villagers, they had firearms. The Colonel removed his helmet. His hair was short but unkempt. Marcus looked down the short path toward the gates of the village. He saw Niambe give the message from Zion. The Colonel erupted into a hysterical laugher, his men followed his lead.

“Please, you termite, do not agitate me, bring me to your commander.” , demanded the Colonel.

“You can’t enter our village with your weapons”, exclaimed Niambe.

“Well we’re not going to leave our weapons with you, you may shoot yourself, and we can’t have that happen now can we”, mocked the Colonel. “I’ll make a deal with you, young villager. If you allow us to keep our weapons, your village will not have to work the mines when it becomes your turn. Does that sound good to you?”

Gritting his teeth, Niambe says softly, “Leave your weapons, or leave our village.”

“We shall do neither. We’re here to talk to your commander. Apparently someone was spotted killing one of the king’s deer without permission. We are here to detain this person and try them in the Kingdom’s Court”, said the Colonel calmly.

Niambe looked down the path and saw Marcus standing with his bow in his hands.

“Well gentlemen, I do believe we have found our convict. Officers, detain him!”

The officers charged down the path at Marcus, knocking Niambe to the ground and aiming their guns down the path. Marcus did not struggle. He gave up easily because he knew he would be killed if he had taken one step backwards. The officers dismounted and kicked him to the ground.

“Well, well, well. We meet again Marcus”, ridiculed one of the officers. Marcus had been cut on his face from the kick. Blood was pouring from his forehead down his garments. The officers tied Marcus to the horses and marched him down the path.

“Well, Marcus. I see that little has changed, eh? Still going where we shouldn’t go? Being a little rebel,” the Colonel’s tone intensified, “…being a stone in my boot? Look around, young Marcus, you may not see this place ever again.”

Marcus glanced around, looking at all the distraught faces of the villagers. Zion stood down the path at the edge of the bonfire. From where he stood, Marcus could see Zion’s tear reflecting the lit fire. Marcus turned to the Colonel. The Colonel had a wicked smile stretched across his face. He looked down at Marcus, and Marcus spat onto his face. The Colonel wiped the spit from his face with a cloth, and then spat onto Marcus’ face. Then Marcus marched away from the village, with his blood and the Colonel’s spit dripping down his face.

Chapter 2: Hindsight

            Coming from my shallow shelter, I surveyed the land that once was a world. Timber was ash, steal bent like string, fire spread like air, and the dead walked around like people. The society that had consumed itself with family values, political ideologies, and religious dogma had been stripped from is complexities and was now as barren as the building infrastructure. There were no skyscrapers, no tall, elegant buildings that architects prided their lives work to construct. Now they were bare, if they even stood at all.

            Walking around my neighborhood I searched for you, any sign that you were near. I wish you weren’t. I wish you were far away from this place. Children were screaming for their mothers, or just wishing they would die and end their suffering. A man walked up to me and asked if I was his father. I did think he could see because his skin had melted over his eyes. The heat was excruciating, it melted skin like cheese in a frying pan. Most people didn’t have eyes, they had been incinerated. I had never felt more helpless. I wish I had a pistol, and allowed myself to shoot anyone in the head who simply wanted to die. But I don’t think there would be enough bullets.

            Most people went to the river to drink. Bodies floated downstream like driftwood after a hurricane. It was almost as dark as the sky. I wanted to keep them away from the water, I wanted to save them, all of them. But who was I to tell them, in their suffering, they cannot drink water. It seemed trivial now, but all I could think was how polluted that water was with disease before, and how poisoned it was now. I sat there for a while, and watched the bodies float passed me like luggage at a baggage claim. Trying to see their faces, hoping one of them was not you. But in truth, I don’t think I would have been able to recognize you. People who I was called my dearest friends were the zombies walking among us.

I saw our neighbor, Mr. Jefferson, digging through the rubble of his home. He had been in his shelter too. And like me, he was alone, just him an d his guilt. I walked over to him and he asked me if he had seen his daughter. I didn’t, but I had a good idea of where she was. The school sat alongside the river. Now half of it was in the river, along with the students and teachers. I could not blame him for being hysterical, but he could blame me for being calm, I lament it to this day. She had been in school, with all the kids, hiding under desks in a feeble attempt to prevent the flash from raping their purity. After a while Mr. Jefferson realized her fate and he grabbed me and started to cry on my shoulder. We were the only two who could embrace without losing a piece of ourselves. So we sat down, amidst the fire and barren infrastructure, watching the bodies pass by until we could claim our luggage. That’s when the planes came.