Novice Poem by Kyle Williams

The national stadium bursts open in anticipation
gun salutes bop bop bop mark your every step
we've waited long enough.
Fathers hold their boys high above their heads,
yellow mirrory eyes see their son's face in you.

Our bloodthirsty shouts follow you in the ring
our coward bodies lime safe on the side line
we tell you, every feint, punch and slip
is a piece of this strip of land. All you do
we'll be watching, waiting for the gold.

You are poetry in motion, a matador to this Spanish bull.
Ole the chorus spews, be graceful and fearless young warrior.
Ole we are here for you (until you lose)women and wine
kisses from politicians and medals of distinction,
the loud parties that will distract until you say no mas
on the stool. Then there is silence in the barren locker room,
You try to remember the fight asking the same question over
and over again. People become annoyed with the helpless and blind.

The faded memory tickles your spine
diluted blood streams down the drain
returning to the sea where all things
are born and then to die.
With your gashed face you sit and tell
what we don't want to face.

Fighting isn't poetry, it's not beautiful.
its blood, sweat and broken limbs
not like in the movies.
Capoeira doesn't work in real life
neither Kung Fu moves
that every black boy is a master.

Fighting is dirty hell like an unholy war.
stepping on toes, headbutts, biting,
eye pokes, holding after the refs says
"hey let go, let go! " pulling your arms away,
from the soft part behind the head.
Fighting is life. chaos and KOs.
Everything to get the win
honorable bodies are the first claimed
if you ain't cheating you ain't trying.
It's only after a dirty loss you learn to win.
You learn countrymen and bandwangonists
don't mean anything. All noise is drowned
bloated on the blue canvas.

But you already know this
I only wanted to remind you
why you are so drawn
to this basic instinct
the fight for survival and bloodlust
indelible in your bestial spirit.