Pitch For the Next Novel: FREEBORN


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Alright, here’s a couple versions of my flavorful, hot-off-the-press Pitch for the new novel: “Freeborn”. It’s still in the rough-draft stage, but you’ll get the gist.

VERSION 8

Katia2198-04 lives in a time of peace, prosperity, and perfect health. The so-called Common Good Era started 200 years ago when the Surgeon Generals declared cloning the mandatory means of reproduction. Mass-sterilization ensures its necessity. Gene selection ensures its success.

All is golden, until a parasite epidemic sweeps through the Commonwealths.  Children, the elderly, women, men: no one is immune, including sixteen-year-old Katia. An infected boy, Adam, offers her asylum in a safehouse. The residents know the truth the Surgeons are hiding. The life squirming inside all those bellies isn’t a parasite at all. It’s a baby. A human one. A freeborn.

Katia struggles with the revelation that the creature inside her is not a monster after all. As her stomach swells, she joins the safehouse rebels in their plot to snatch control of the masses away from the Surgeons. The plan is risky, insane. It will affect every person on the planet.

The Surgeons will not give up control without a fight, but the future of the infected clones, and the freeborns they carry, depend on it. Adam and Katia are simply accelerating the process that has already begun. The Common Good is not so good. It is time for a new era.

 

VERSION 2

Katia lives in a time of peace, prosperity, and perfect health. The so-called Common Good Era started 200 years ago when the Surgeon Generals declared cloning the mandatory means of reproduction. Mass-sterilization ensures its necessity. Gene selection ensures its success.

A parasite epidemic sweeps through the Commonwealths.  Children, the elderly, women, men; no one is immune. Sixteen-year-old Katia becomes infected.

So does Adam. He and the other rebels in the safehouse know the truth the Surgeons are hiding. The life squirming inside all those bellies isn’t a parasite at all. It’s a baby. A human one. A freeborn. Adam knows this for a fact. Fifteen years earlier, his mom was the first to go full-term. Now, he’s pregnant with a freeborn baby of his own.

Adam offers Katia asylum in the safehouse. She struggles with the revelation that the creature inside her is not a monster after all. The rebels need her on their side. She is pivotal in their plan to snatch the control away from the Surgeons. The plan is risky, insane. It will affect every person on the planet.

The Surgeons will not give up control without a fight, but the future of both the clones and the freeborns depends on it. Adam and Katia are simply accelerating the process nature started.

[Feedback welcome. I’m sick of bland pitches ::: vomit ::: This one matches the style of the writing in Freeborn. Q: Is it going too ‘informal’? Too much voice? Can you have too much voice in a Pitch?]

 

Poem: Braille


My eyes, half-seeing, in the darkened room
      close to extinguish the foggy light
peeping in through the window

I am blind.

But my hands-
my hands see you lying there
with 20/20
and read over your body like braille

The hair freshly cut
on the back of your head
Synonymous softness
on your chest
your arms
your legs

My fingers read your warmth as “Welcome”
a comfortable couch to snuggle into
a tall glass of tea to be sipped
Your skin speaks to me in volumes:
Book 1: “Youthfulness”
Book 2: “Pleasure”
Book 3: “Playfulness”

Your lips, like romance novels,
tender under my touch,
part just enough
to let me in on your secrets

Goosebumps (like little sisters) tell on you-
give away your hidden meaning
in tangible moans
as I count them-
against your will

The braille of your body – vast volumes
too thick & numerous-
a library too expansive
for my hands to translate unassisted.

So I call for backup
from other parts
& index:
Every page
Every line
Every word-
      by touch alone

This poem is a true story. I drafted the bulk of it in my head while tracing the skin of a lover one morning. The light was streaming in the window. My lover’s chest was rising and falling in the easy breath of sleep. I simply enjoyed the play of light and shadow, reading the lines with my fingers, interpretin the sensation of touch into words, writing poetry in my head.

Poem: Loveliness


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Nine finger Nanny looks at me with her lazy eye
I think
Then she flips me the bird
With that one finger that isn’t there

She’d be able to pick out my lisp
If I hadn’t swallowed my tongue last night
Of course, the deafness in her left ear
Keeps her from hearing half of what I try to say anyway

She hobbles along next to my wheelchair
As we stroll down the beach
Prosthetic hand in prosthetic hand
In the sand

She stops at least 9 times to dance on her one good leg
‘Cause she has to pee so badly
It’s been an issue ever since she sold that kidney
To buy me a valentine

Just as she sets out to recite
A love poem from memory
Her chronic amnesia kicks in – Again
A sobbing mess, she slumps to the ground

So I slide out of my seat
And plop down next to my sandy Nanny
As she pees her pants
And the waves lap up our loveliness

Poem: Octopus Orgasm


Multiplied pleasure

A factor of 8
Evens & odds
Take turns, undulate

Tentacle suctions

Pucker themselves
Beak thick with hardness
Pecker of shells

Undersea ecstasy

Deep in the bay
Octagonal thrashing
Coming in waves

Octopus orgasm

Sudden, complete
Spurting out life
In ejaculate ink

Poem: Cusswords


Fluff!

You fluffing piece of silk!
I’m so sick and tired of all your clouds – you sorry Bliss
Pack your bags and get the heart out of my dream house now
Right this fluffing minute!

You two-bit, jacked-up Pretty
You sorry little Bubble
You horrible self-centered Bliss
Dream you! Dream you! Dream you to heart!

I gave you all I fluffing had
And being the pathetic piece of silk that you are –
You ripped it all up with those big air hands of yours
Tore it all to shreds.
Stomped it out with those big air feet

So what was the point, you sorry Bliss-
You filthy two-faced Bubble?
What was the fluffing point?
When it all just ended up a silky heap of rubble on the dream floor?

So just sing my drink one last time
Then get the fluff out of my dream world for good.
You cowardly Bubble
Get the fluff out!

Poem: Holy Days Reborn


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Once upon a time
There was this virgin
Who gave birth to
The son of God.

So go to sleep now
And some fat guy’s
Gonna break in and bring you tons
Of plastic crap
You don’t need
Wrapped in shiny paper.

Then, a few years later,
Jesus popped up
From the dead
and said,“I’m alive!
Go find some eggs?”

And they all
[for the most part]
Lived
For-happily ever after.

Poem: Bumblebee Pee


See it must be a bee who leaked a pee on me
I surmised it kinda funny when the urine wasn’t runny
When I buttered up my tummy lapping up the bladder honey

It wuz becuz of the guzzle of the fuzz that made me buzz
Getting kinda tricky to lick up the icky sticky
The muck struck & stuck when my suck ran out of luck
Like bumblebee pee from a honeycomb

Then there was the sting of the black & yellow thing
With the swiftly shifting wings & the zing the stinger brings

Sick of the tickle of the fickle venom trickle
I slapped the massive gnat with a whack
With a flash-smack-attack
And smashed the sucker flat

Now I know not to go where the bumblebees blow
Thumping up & down & under like some otherworldly thunder
Hovering over one another
Unplugging honey udders
Full of bumblebee pee

I do open mics. Don’t tell anyone, but I actually created a loop of a Milla Jovovich [love her!] song from the Peopletree Sessions to run behind my reading for this. I never had the balls to perform this piece [with the music] in public. I shared it sans sample. But not with it. Not sure why I chickened out on it…

Poem: The Anti-Nothing


What lingers on the other side of nothing?
What squirms in the pit
Where blackholes dump their trash?
Spew their collections?
Bury their loot?

Slippery lip
Where the universe spills over its edge
Into somethingness
Anti-nothingness
Perfect newness

Colors hum there
Matter, mass
Fresh amoebas
Foreign, congealing
Into new music, novel mist

That random place where anti-dust & anti-heat
Implode & churn out anti-light
Anti-matter springs, unfolds
Anti-worlds & anti-words
Anti-poems, anti-songs

Anti-planets, anti-suns
Ante up in the anti-space
Where Auntie Em looks down in black & white
Swabbing the head with an anti-rag
Dipped in antique water

Anti-thoughts in the anti-mind
Swim around in the anti-time
Where far & near are upside down
Anti-pulsars spin around
In retrograde

The anti-wormholes are antebellum
Post-apocalyptic felons
Anti-war & anti-peace
Anti-teeth in anti-jaws
Speak anti-rules & anti-laws
While living anti-true & false

Pooling up & cooling down
In the land where life creates itself
To shake the known with quasar-quakes

Giving birth
On the inside of everything
Nothing included
Nothing reborn
As something

Poem: e. coli


Yield!

There was dis-ease throughout the barnyard
Everyone wanted more spinach & meat
“Yield! Yield!” cried the townsfolk.
“When pigs fly!” the farmer replied.

But he gave in anyway

So the swine flu overhead
and flooded the engine ears of corn
Which made a mad cow stomp & foam
from its hooves & mouth

Then a bird flu over the coop
and flocks of chicken pox
broke out of the henhouse
Their eggs all stolen
by an Asian weasel
with the German measles

Who ran down to the river
full of salmonella
Swimming & splashing
onto the roots of the beans

Which were closest to the patch
of potato tuberculosis
Growing in the freshly-sprayed soil
enriched with beta-quarantine

But none of this plagued
the people’s dreams
As they brandished pitchforks & spoons
demanding from their growling guts
“Yield! Yield!”
“Yield!”