Horshoes...Handwritten Grenades

It comes back to you sometimes. Like an old accent you suppress until you hear your native tongue flirting with the tip of your ear drum.

Winning...something came back for the Writing Wrongs squad on Thursday as we were able to win our bout. The team battled hard, performed their asses off and dug deep with a collective grip around their nads (er, ovaries in Barb's case) and did what needed to be done to win. So that gave us a total of a 4 thru pre-lims (3rd place finish on Tuesday, 1st on Thursday). Just so has it a few "4's" got in to semis. Unfortunately we weren't with them.

But I couldn't be more proud of how we bounced back, finishing 27th overall (out of 68 teams with the top 20 making semifinals).

We're done slamming, but I'll have more updates from the National Poetry Slam later

Heartbreak...

Well, for Nationals the first night of slamming is always heartbreak hotel. Everyone finds out if they prepared enough or gets to see that they’re no nearly as good as they thought they might be. Writing Wrongs pulled the 3 in their first bout (ie, finished 3rd out of 4 teams). Judging by the performances we put on, that seems about right. Definitely not the type of effort we had prepped all the summer, so in that aspects it’s a little disappointing. We still have our next bout on Thursday in a very winnable matchup, so we are not past our window of atonement. Making semi-finals is probably a long shot at this point, but we can still make a herculean effort towards it by winning on Thursday.

But that’s the slam part of it. From a coaching perspective, while I’m not happy about how we performed, I’m glad everyone got to hit the stage on the first night. Our rookies got a taste of the hard skin of slamming at Nationals and I think they’ll be better for it. We all got to hear some amazing work both in our bout and others, making a lot of new friends along the way.
Wednesday is our off day, so I think our team has made it mandatory that the beach is on the menu. A much needed day of rest, relaxation and at the end of the night, just hearing some good poems.

I’ll check in again soon.

National Poetry Slam: Take Four

Yeah...so I'm sitting at the Southwest Terminal in Columbus (which is the best for the techy traveler since Port Columbus has free wi-fi and Southwest has bars and stools with electrical outlets and usb powered ports, something visibly and incomparably vacant from 70% of US airports). By 11am (God-willing), I'll be in West Palm Beach, fully immersed in the opening salvos of the 20th annual National Poetry Slam. Got a lot going on this year. Coaching the first Writing Wrongs Slam Team, my second team overall. Getting the first print of my new book in my hands. Trying to sale said book. Setting the foundation for some extensive touring in fall and winter. We shall see.

For the immediate focus, I think the team is ready.


They're fun. They're focused. They're incredibly diverse and probably nervous as hell. I don't think I've been on a team where the poets all felt like they had this much to prove. Including myself. I've got two rookies (Ethan & Wyk) that are desperately trying to make me and everyone else forget that they're rookies. I suppose they're as ready as newbies get, though I'd love for them to already have the experience that they'll get from this Nationals...heading into it. Such is life I suppose. Spike had an inconsistent Nationals performance in '08 and wants to atone for it. He probably had a lopsided balance of prep & partying last year (lopsided away from my desires no doubt) and he's been noticeably focused this summer in improving himself and our team. Probably doesn't hurt that I've been riding his ass for the last year or so because of what happened in '08, but he's been very committed. Then there's Barb. Well, Barb is Barb you know. Smile and hug on you, rip your heart out on stage. Smile and hug afterward. I saw everything from Barb that I needed to see in Toronto during Rustbelt.

Me, a brotha wants to make semis. Somewhere between Nats last year, Rustbelt and hanging out at IWPS and WOWPS, the community started treating me very...alpha. Which I'm cool with. I just know that when in doubt, people are going to expect me to carry the team when necessary. I don't think this team needs that from me...but I need to be ready...just in case.

As for the bouts, we didn't get any favors as far as an easy road. Of course, everyone will have their own favorites, but I've heard the echoes about how tough our first bout will be. Denver Slam Nuba, Oakland & Eclectic Truth (Baton Rouge). Are you serious? Yeah, apparently. But you know what, that's a Tuesday issue. Today, I'm just a travelin man like Mighty Mos. Gonna settle under some Florida sun and wait for my team to arrive (which I think I got 5 or 6 hours before the next one arrives).

My heart is in Toronto, though the Rustbelt trophy is in my kitchen

To get it out of the way, lets hang a big, pink dress (in honor of Barbara Fant) on the elephant in the corner:
A lot of people decided to not come to Rustbelt this year.


Which is a shame...but understandable from some standpoints. The perceived distance to Toronto for some cities, the complication of crossing an international border and worries of obtaining a passport (though you didn't actually need one till two days after Rustbelt ended) or the theological discussion of whether the city of Toronto was actually part of the Rustbelt Region or not and just how relevant that point was. I'm not disputing any of those causes. What disappoints me is that by simple math, plenty of teams that voted for Rustbelt in Toronto last year decided not to show up this year. That...is a problem. So I went in to Rustbelt with a completely different perspective from past years. I put together a make-shift team before Writing Wrongs even had their slam-off, eventually ended up registering 1/3 of the teams that would compete at Rustbelt and told Mike "Spike" Cowell that this would probably be Rustbelt 'Lite' because there were only 6 teams.

Well, either by coincidence or as a direct correlation, this was the most fun I've had at a Rustbelt yet (which includes two of those happening in my hometown). For the record, I've never not enjoyed a Rustbelt to some capacity (except the self mutilation that occurred within my team in Milwaukee '06). But the community aspect we all want to take away as poets and that we as organizers all try to sculpt from the walls of the venues we choose was there...in a big way. The competition was unwavering, make no mistake, but the love for every poet that stepped off stage, the anticipation of every poet from the previously unknown (like Phoenix of Cleveland), the Alphas (like Jamaal May), the uniqueness of the multi-voiced poems that Toronto always brings to the table was thick and seemed to hover above the speakers during the intros of each round. Toronto developed the reputation early on how impossibly friendly, committed and organized they are in the poetry slam pursuits and it put a nice shine on everything this weekend. And congrats to the organizers growing the biggest Finals audience in Rustbelt history. The venue was beautiful, the energy was dripping into the aisles and the attentiveness of the crowd was as good as you're going to find...on either side of the border. Cheers Toronto...you get my props in a big way.

I also learned a ton about my National Slam Team as they made up most of the official Columbus Writing Wrongs team at Rustbelt (plus Omari Kingwise who I'll get to later). I gave Mike the reins to coach the squad as I doubt I'll be coaching adult slam teams for another 10 years and didn't want a conflict of interest being on another team anyway. I was proud of them, extremely proud. I felt like Ethan and Wyk cut their teeth the right way, getting a taste of National Competition, the feel of how lonely and liberating the stage can be in front of a bunch of strangers. It renewed (or re-upped) my confidence in them as we prep for Nationals. Mike got a crash course in decision making and its short and long term impacts on your squad (while he performed extremely well himself). They all got what they needed to get out of it and I couldn't ask for more than that. The immortal Jim Brown once said, "Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth"...and they definitely stood tall after taking their lumps.

Which leads me to Omari...who was invaluable. I have no illusions of whatever shadow I may cast for my National teammates and just how Alpha and opinionated I am as a coach for them, so I know there's a chance of them becoming numb to me at times. So Omari being part of the squad was just perfect. He's an ideal teammate, a team first guy who excelled into Indy finals anyway. He led by example and gave my guys a glimpse at what a professional, selfless poet looks like in a competitive situation. He definitely one of my favorite people right now.

Ok...Detroit...not much I can say as I love these peeps already. Its no secret that J.W. Baz (who rolled with Detroit) is one of my best friends in poetry scene kinda made my weekend just being there. The always beautiful Karrie Waarala is a joy both on and off stage. Tom Budday just did his fuckin thing. Point blank. When the opening salvos were fired, he was winning his rounds and he rode that energy to second place at Indie Finals. Which was only because Jamaal 'Vs.' May won it...again...Of course he did. Before Rustbelt started when we were all trying to guess who might make Indie Finals, we were all like, "Well, Jamaal is the only automatic..." I make no concessions on my admiration of the man's work as he's one of my favorite cats in this here poetry game. There were times when he performed this weekend where I could feel my spine CLICK and as cynical as I've become about poetry, that doesn't happen very often.

As for my Brooklyn-Columbus team...we accomplished what we set out to do, which is win the whole damn thing. Which felt good. Damn good. For a number of reasons. I had people telling me that I carried us to the championship which is complete BS (nice compliment aside) as everybody, I mean, everybody brought it. Especially at Finals.

Dave Nichols - Dave has always been an interesting case study as far as slam is concerned. You won't find a person that doesn't think his work is amazing, but he's feast or famine in slam at times because of his rapid and dense style. He stumbled a little the first night of competition and I told Mahogany that Dave would internalize that and be a complete Beast the rest of the way...and he didn't make a liar out of me. Just a joy watchin the big guy let loose on stage. And if you haven't heard about the booty bounce her performed in the middle of his poem, then you better ask somebody.

Barbara Fant - I don't know how it happened exactly, but somehow I became more like an older, overprotective brother of Barb more so than colleague or coach. In my short time on the poetry scene, I have never seen someone skip as many levels on the evolutionary ladder than her. More than anything, my favorite aspect of the last couple of years has been watching her go from (seemingly) shy pretty girl with a big smile to Godzilla behind a microphone and its been awesome, awesome, awesome.

Mahogany L Browne - Look, this started as a joke. We were chillin at the Hard Rock Cafe during Women of the World when Rustbelt came up in the discussion and she was like, "I wanna be on your Rustbelt team." I said absolutely. She thought I was bullshittin. I wasn't. She went thru a lot to make her way to Toronto this weekend and its unquestionable that she changed the landscape of how this event was going to play out. Her poetry and high scores aside, she just gave my squad (and the competition on the whole) this swagger that could not be silenced. She got Barb and Dave to believe that it was our title to lose. She got us all to wear the "I'm kind of a Big Deal" T-shirts just to cement that confidence. She was awesome as she always is in every way and made this even more fun than it was going to be. Love you Mo Browne.

Again, Toronto, you did a great job, behind the scenes and on stage, giving me an experience I won't soon forget. Peace to everyone that made this thing really, really fun (like Tom Noy, Free, LOGIC, Mr. Edward Mabrey and the Marsh Family) as LOGIC will have his work cut out for him next year in East Lansing. Goodnight Canada, I miss you already.

When non-slammers go wild

This blog will not be original. The issue of Slam in the poetry world has be diagnosed to the depths of Hades well before I even knew what it was. An event occurred last night at a slam here in Columbus in which a respected poet in the community had themselves a Christian Bale type meltdown about how slam was devaluing poetry (right after they pulled themselves out of said slam mind you).

I was not there. I cannot comment to any extent of the person's behavior beyond the blogs, notes and posted items that have appeared since last night, so I won't. But outside of the obvious inclination that you 'just can't do that' and the fact that I've seen this person perform with similar behavior before, I'll say this: Many of us have wanted to do this before.

How many times have you been in a slam, you hear a poem you don't like at all, but then the scores go up and there's high 9s across the board? The first thought that comes to mind is: Fuck, its gonna be like this all night? And some nights it goes that way, so no one is misunderstanding the train of thought that leads to some one exploding at a poetry slam. However, I think the best element of slam is the community aspect of it (hey, didn't Smith create slam to give it back to the people anyway), so if you're up there lambasting peoples work, then you're going against the intent. Also, there's something to be said for seperating a person from their art/talent. You probably think of a ton of poets where you're like, 'great person, ok work' or vice versa. The same way I can say that Ty Cobb and Pete Rose were amazing baseball players, but huge assholes as people. So its cool to think a poem isn't up to snuff, but the second you proclaim to everybody else how bad the poem was, you're dealing with the individual at that point, not the poet.

Ending Black History Month

The Folly in Standing Up

Few things smell like Sunday
Like a boiling pot of red beans in the kitchen
Reginald knows this
The scent pulls his eyes open from his afternoon slumber
He has left the TV on
And it is buzzing like a sunrise
He is not ready to welcome
A high tide of History Channel
Destabilization for a veteran

At 68 years old
Reginald has forgotten about more things
To apologize for
Then times he deserved an apology himself
But the TV is asking 1967 questions
2K Reginald simply doesn’t have answers for
Like why a North Korean sunset tastes metallic
How he could never wash the jungle
From between his toes

The remote control is buried in a tree stump
Three feet away from his rocking chair
But there is a folly in standing up
Like volunteering
Like letting your head be exposed
To the mercy of thick brush
A non-English speaking nightfall
That hates you
Hates you in Lao
Hates you
For fighting for a country that hates you
Traitor
Mutt
That dog don’t hunt
Unless he buried everyone’s shit first
Boy

Reginald can feel the snakes ascending his chair
The venom is mercy
Don’t wanna bleed out in no rice patch
With some Huntsville peckerwood laughing over me
Best bite me now
Lest my squad call you a nigger lover
Keep your head low Re-Re
There’s less armor on the back
Of this helmet
They’ll make your dome blush
Like an ink blot
Tell command that the darkies
Got no sense of direction
Dead negroes can’t pin no tales
On trigger happy donkeys

Keep your head low Re-Re
The ceiling fan ain’t no rescue chopper
Don’t know what’s waiting for me
Back there anyway
Another dead minister
A Doberman extending from the ethos
Of a blue uniform
At least here I got a M16 chance
An AWOL shot at seeing 70
Ain’t you heard the forest fire screams
The scratches the starving natives leave
On my chest trying to eat the ammunition clips
Across my belt
In the land of the Goukes
The porch monkey is king
Keep your rifle dry
And your eyes open when you sleep
Don’t know when one of these good ol boys
Gonna be too high
To tell I ain’t no 14 year old Vietcong
Too ashamed by the time they come down
They gotta hide me
In a murder hole
No thank you
Re-Re don’t do haiku
Too many hung. Casualties. Looks just like Heaven’s. One hand clapping.

The TV is calling its documentary a special
Like there’s anything special about
The smell of charred meat
Where a village used to be
Re-Re wants to stand up
But he can’t
Still trying to roll over
From that pretty girl before the others
Got their turn
Can’t stand up mid stroke
Lest they believe
You’re a faggot over here
Couldn’t understand her
But tears are easy to translate
The numbness of a woman’s befouled body
Only visits you in foxholes
Or letters to home
You sign as Thomas or Jonathan
In case the mail carrier grew up
With Trent Lott
Didn’t have no Casius Clay celebrity
Couldn’t Louisville loudmouth
My way out of coming here

Re-Re counts his days in racial slurs
And epitaphs
Just 284 Nigger watch my back’s
Till he leaves the jungle
Funny how the concrete
Is softer than American irony
How the clouds will always look
Like a napalm sky

Few things smell like Sunday
Like the handle of a semi automatic
Messenger
But Reginald gets it
Gets his rocking chair
Will never be sacred ground
As long as he keeps a memory
Gets that apologies are lost in the winds
Of lands you never plan on returning to
Which is why
He will never ask for the ones
He actually deserves

Forest Fire

If I kissed you
Under this tipsy sky
Could you resurrect me
Before it awakes from its slumber?
Before the clouds get their bearings
And discover my body wrapped in silkweed
With traces of your voice still leaving slight bruises
On my shoulders?
Could you break me
And reshape me as a sun dial
So I am useless
When your light is taken from me
Like the Earth was allergic to my parallel
And refused to let me fall
Like you stored magnets in your cheeks
I could never pull away from your smile
Tell me where the sidewalk ends
Tell me this temple you’ve been building
Has walls made of nothing but the sound of you sleeping
I will rest there like a wounded soldier
With his memory cut out during battle
Sleep under my shield
So I am not devoured by your reflection
I want to draw the ocean
You dream of being rescued from
The scarf you think is much too warm to wear
On most days
And prompts you to expose yourself to the unknown
The wind at your back that reminds you
Nothing can move you
Not a boulder ignorant of gravity
Not a blizzard who only wants to shed himself
Till he is back to the first snowflake he began as

I miss you in a way
A needle misses the inside of forearms
How guitar strings hate to love the notes that leave it
I want to bring a forest fire to your open sky
So you can see
That you are above
Majestic things
Destroying themselves
Shackle your ankles to summits
And watch you move mountains
When you dance
This waltz of volcanoes imploding
Holding in the tears of watching
You paint gods across
The landscape from your footsteps

If I kissed you under this tipsy sky
Would you tell my mourners
I died a hero
That you held me like a noose
When you hung me from your lips
That I refused to step away from your ribcage
When your heart came barreling down the tracks

I want to bleed sand
When you handle hour glasses
My life rests in your hands
When you hold it sideways
And stop time
I can finally rest knowing
I have no more mountains left to climb
No longer falling down the barrel of stop signs
No more words with heartbreak and your name
Left to rhyme

Every night
The sky drinks its own weight in your eyes
And is too drunk by dawn
To fight off the coming day
We are all the numbing the pain
Of losing what we never really deserved to have
Flying kites during thunderstorms
Trying to forget the taste of safety on our tongues

If I kiss you
I want you to carry me home
Though I’m sure
I’ve never been there
Before