I’ll admit I wanted you to like me I’ll even admit that I thought I had some pretty decent stuff. But I don’t slam. and I don’t rhyme. and I don’t act that well. and when I read you can’t see that the last three lines of the first stanza each had one word. And you can’t see that I drank before I showed up. I wasn’t nervous, just thirsty. And I get butterflies when I’m thirsty. I sent those butterflies aloft to meet their god on the wings of 4/6ths of a 6-pack from the cheap beer section in the bargain beer store. I walked in with confidence in my stride poems in my hand and plans in the top of my neck ready to drop from my mouth. Words in the space of an exhale and the weight… the potential weight of a mountain. and there is something to be said for potential. It’s yours to give life. and I wanted Genesis… but they were well into the Gospels when I arrived. I ordered up a round and sat down back to the wall eyes to the mic ears to man and God, and all of us in between that landed here. These people didn’t write like me. These people didn’t observe my forms – my lack of form. They were angry, and in love, and against the man, and the man, and singers, and users, and the used. They were highly educated, and street educated, alone and together, hearts out loud, real people, perfect people. The slam poet slams. There’s a rockstar and an artist pushing his brain and his heart into a space only big enough for one or the other but his words tell them to fit. And they do. He had control over the forces twisting and stretching his brain and heart together at will. Pushing them though the eye of a needle that was the eye of a tiny storm that grew and grew and grew until we were all surrounded and the walls around us were a great storm he created with the passion we all came for and came with. And for those moments all any of us wanted to do was slam. You’re beautiful. The singing poet sings. Your melodies are made up on the spot a thousand years ago. by angels. by scoundrels. by kings of back alleys and beautiful faces in ball gowns Your body jumps alive to your music. Your feet are ahead of you, your tragic past behind you, and your hands dancing at the ends of your wrists – like soup cans tied to a bumper of a car reading “Just Married” Just married to these songs. Happily ever after is the look in your eyes. Even when they’re closed. And for those moments all any of us wanted to do was sing. You’re beautiful. The rhyming poet rhymes. A perfect pantoum masterfully done. We laugh at your wit, a quatrain at a time. A legal pad flipbook filled with homeruns. A perfect pantoum masterfully done. Why am I so stuck on prose? A legal pad flipbook filled with homeruns I’m hoping that I’m not next to go. Why am I so stuck on prose? There’s so much more to explore. I’m hoping that I’m not next to go, the whole bar has been left on the floor. There’s so much more to explore. We laugh at your wit, a quatrain at a time. The whole bar has been left on the floor and for those moments all any of us wanted to do was rhyme. You’re beautiful. The mourning poet mourns. The bar is quiet. Silent if not encouraging. You hold us in your world with eyes fixed below the horizon. A room full of quivering chins and damp cheeks bound to vulnerable honesty. Your words so heavy they get caught in your throat and escape with gentle courage through your eyes. You’re here to let it out and let it go. You share your deepest hurt and we pass your pain around the room each breaking off a piece for ourselves like poetry communion hoping to lighten your load. And for those moments all any of us wanted to do was mourn. You’re beautiful. The dreamer poet dreams. Your notebook is used. Pages are loose. Scribbled thoughts and ideas drawings, doodles, and handpicked flowers pushed gently into the binding. All left to dry and last forever. I want to spend a day behind your eyes reading your books and seeing the world the way you write it. Like a day dream and no one ever told you to wake up - you never do. You are a flower in all of our notebooks. I know if I plucked your petals, one by one, that it’s an odd number. Because I love you. And for those moments all any of us wanted to do was dream. You’re beautiful. These inspiring poets inspire me so much that I don’t know who to be. I’ve slammed, sang, mourned, rhymed, and dreamed. I’ve been everyone but who I came to be. I settled on being me because I hoped someone else would enjoy me how I enjoyed them. To go away together and give them a part of me. …That and I only brought my own stuff. I give the cold mic a test. One final kick to the tires before hitting the road. And for those moments all I want to do is inspire. You’re beautiful.
Posted on: Wed, 06 Nov 2013 17:57:29 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015