Category Archives: Poems
There’s a voice in my head when I read poems, and she speaks like a rust-wreck gassed up on moonshine. But you can only say something meaningful in the poem if you speak like you’re reciting the side effects of a questionable medicine at the end of a 2am infomercial, only slower. There’s a brick caught in your throat, and the poet sometimes speaks around it, certain to en-nun-see-eight each word. The brick is twined with a message scrawled on a bar napkin, reads, what I’m saying right now is very important.
The poet is a not a hypnotist, only sounds like it. Perhaps in speaking with the voice, a voice that does not seem to ever belong in anyone’s human mouth, the poet
authority. The poet talks
in his sleep
these words are merely
dream, an imprint
of what sentences
may not say until broken
#NationalPoetryMonth 2/30. This persona piece follows the fictional narrative of an older gay man arrested on charges of sodomy during the 1960s and subjected to electric shock therapy to aid in his conversion.
“According to the American Psychiatric Association, until 1974 homosexuality was a mental illness. Freud had alluded to homosexuality numerous times in his writings, and had concluded that paranoia and homosexuality were inseparable. Other psychiatrists wrote copiously on the subject, and homosexuality was “treated” on a wide basis. There was little or no suggestion within the psychiatric community that homosexuality might be conceptualized as anything other than a mental illness that needed to be treated.” – PHIL HICKEY
“Martin had a dream. Martin had a dream. Kendrick had a dream.”- Backseat Freestyles/ good kid, m.A.A.d city
- Kendrick Lamar floats above cityscape,
alight with flaming angel wings.
Flying or falling, he cannot tell. He
wakes in a stupor, his eyes bright as forgotten Heavens.
- Kendrick Lamar unzips his pants, and
the Eifel Tower springs from between the zippers.
He proceeds to fuck the world for 72 hours.
- Kendrick Lamar stands naked in front of his class.
He is in high school chemistry class, and his Eifel
Tower is now just a normal phallus. Someone
laughs. Someone shouts, “Bitch, don’t kill my vibe!”
- A giant eagle with the face of
School Boy Q chases Kendrick Lamar
through the desert, his legs thin as chopsticks.
As he pushes harder, the Eagle draws closer,
his claws familiar as Compton.
- Kendrick Lamar misses a flight to Berlin,
for he lies in a box,
a cedar box buried six feet under the ground, his body
contorting with rage and fear. His head banging
against the top of the box
as he wonders whether he might escape.
He will not escape, not until he wakes
in mid-afternoon, his bed wet
with hangover sweat,
his back still dripping as if he just climbed from a pool full of liquor,
as if only just yesterday
he woke for the first time.
For the writer of this wonderful article: “Perfect Day In Charleston, SC”:
This ain’t the first time y’all came here,
your head brimming with expectations of fried opossum
and hillbilly carnival, the specter of the south leaving
such a distinctly sweet taste in your mouth.
But here we ain’t choking on molasses, ain’t passing time
running through fields of corn, listening to country music,
and doing whatever else the fuck you think we do here.
You come to Charleston and smile, congratulate us
on how progressive we’ve become. How our buckteeth
don’t offend you as they snack on sweet taters.
You said something to that effect, didn’t you,
when you praised the southern boutiques built for tourists,
said the south ain’t so bad after all.
You came looking for genteel, so I guessed you miss
the dirt in our teeth, the flames in our eyes, the fight
in our chests, and the holy brains in our skulls.
Cute that you thought a day could do us justice,
that when looking for the beautiful in our city,
you only looked up toward steeples, conjuring
plantation homes in downtown that never existed.
Tell me again how quaint we are, us quiet people,
how we put you to sleep. How you think that condescension
ain’t fighting words.
My name never meant anything,
couldn’t stride or glide on leathery wings,
only waddled—the awkward bird at the dance.
Never knew anything gilded before this, not like him,
because I know this man under the mask.
How he pretends that a cowl and cape make him
one of us, then spits in my face like my family name
is waning into history, the last heir a bachelor.
My family never cared that I could inherit anything.
But I didn’t grow up pretty boy.
Never knew the gold of the sky before taking the treasure myself.
Penguins live their entire wings and never learn to fly.
Forgive me for watching other dark and flying things
and becoming envious.
Forgive me for reaching in this cruel city
for something more, for something I wasn’t born to claim.
Maybe I wasn’t fit for umbrellas and top hat. Maybe I wasn’t meant for the throne.
But do not all Gotham boys dream of growing up
to become Emperor?
Today, I drank coffee with Medusa’s little sister,
whose hair does not slither, but rather rises buoyed,
a cotton-candy flower blooming into sugar-rush and sick.
She drinks espresso in a single gulp.
She tells me that just because her face does not stop men in their tracks,
the way her sister’s beautiful face causes men to become immobile,
struck still as stone statues in their bumbling awe,
this does not mean she remains permissive to their stares.
The absence of serpent heads does not make her victim. She too
courts lightning inside of her.
She too some days feels like a monster,
shattering mirrors with shrieks of desperation.
She too knows rage’s name, kisses him like a grandfather.
She too has been scorned, but her hair
does not scare away the boys who whistle, only melts in the heat,
a sticky pink mess of fake sweet.
I encountered a mob of frenzied students
in the throes of a musical number.
Each face stretched into song, arms angled toward sky
like a tuning fork attempting to channel thunder’s vibrations.
They danced a choreographed can-can,
legs pumping and kicking scissor-snaps.
They grab my hand, implore me to join in,
and I shrug, tired this early in the morning.
I cannot sing the song they each know every word to,
and if I tried to mimic their dances, I would end up
always half a beat behind, trying to blend in,
my face stretching into smile.
Who’s musical fantasy was this anyways,
that requires so many unwilling participants?
Two leather-jacketed lovers sway in the center of our spectacle,
spinning by themselves.
Oblivious to the circus elephants marching behind us, a plane flying in loops above us,
and the rain of confetti floating fast like a penny dropped from atop the Empire.
The lovers do not look to see if we’ve got the moves right.
They’re not even dancing at all.
So, you want to win a poetry slam? Listen closely, and I’ll tell you exactly what you need to do.
For those uninitiated into the ancient art form of spoken word, ‘Slam’ is a competition invented by Marc Smith (So What?) in 1985 at this joint called the Get Me High Lounge. Poetry at the time was pretty crazy—people were bellowing elongated vowels atop bar stools and generally doing whatever they pleased. The conceit of the poetry slam was to get more people into seats to experience poetry, which is the main problem that poetry confronts—its serious public image problem.
Conjure the poet, the black-turtle-necked, finger-snappin’ intellectual speaking as if in a trance words describing their daily bowel movements and the fresco-palette of the setting sun. Slam poetry has in recent decades sucker-punched poetry back into the public spotlight, made it spectacle to see, not just a hobby for snooty would-be-rebels. Poetry slam is energetic. Scoop up the love of words and the search for truth, slap that together with theatrical Umph! and you get Slam Poetry. Almost like reciting monologues, almost like delivering a Pentecostal sermon, almost like political protest, but not exactly like any of that, the art of Spoken Word has grown into an international phenomenon.
Almost every major city holds a regular poetry slam. I happen to co-host the Holy City Slam right in the heart of Charleston, South Carolina. Beyond that, there are also regional slams—these often offer more money to get the best in the surrounding states to come out to compete. From there one sees larger and larger slams, including the National Poetry Slam and International Poetry Slam. Got no idea what I’m talking about? Here are some videos from recent slams that have taken place in the United States including the Rustbelt Poetry Slam, the Southern Fried Poetry Slam (which the Holy City Slammers took part in), and CUPSI.
But you didn’t come here to hear me sing the praises of poetry slams, did you? You don’t care about the history or the atmosphere. You just want to win. So the ULTIMATE secret to winning a poetry slam is…
Go to a poetry slam. There really ain’t much of a secret. Because judges are randomly chosen from the audience and because those judges’ tastes vary so much, there is no one style of poetry that will appeal to everyone. I know, it’s disappointing for me to lead you on like this, to hype up this great secret and then drop your expectations off a sheer cliff. But I will share an even better secret with you.
The Poetry Slam is a trick. It’s a game. We just people to come out and read and experience poetry. I mean, poetry is awesome, but it has a serious image problem. People think poetry is boring. Until individuals take the plunge and experience the magic and healing of spoken word for themselves, they can’t know what they’re missing until they take that first plunge. So we dress poetry up like a sport, give it a competitive edge so that poets will bring their best and most polished work to the stage. This forces the poet to memorize and practice and hone their skills until they can stand on stage and deliver the best damn poem the world’s ever been. And the audience is inspired, and they will give the poets incredible scores, HURRAH!
But we don’t hold the poetry slam so we can hoist the winner on our shoulders and praise them for their literary efforts. Of course, the winner is usually an awesome poet who kicks verbal ass, but that’s not the point of the poetry slam, nope. The secret is, poetry slams are about YOU. We want YOU to have a great experience, to leave the venue feeling inspired. Maybe you might even pick up your pen, find that old notebook you’ve so long neglected, and start writing. Then comes the healing, the gush, the plunge, the heart-explosions, the gut-spillage, the brain splatter, and the love of poetry.
We want poetry to grow in our communities, to touch lives. We want to give poets the opportunity to grow in their careers and be paid handsomely for their work (one problem poets confront is that the public generally believes that art should be a public service and the artist a financial martyr). But it remains difficult to convince venues and parties to pay poets unless the audience and public believes poetry is a viable form of entertainment.
Hence, poetry slams.
Oh, what could it be? A baseball game? A boxing match? A NASCAR race? Not exactly.
But it can just as entertaining, imbued also with a consciousness you won’t find in any other type of competitive sport. Our strongest muscles are our lightning-fast tongues and at the end of the day, we want to make you cry or smile or laugh or feel SOMETHING. So that’s the real Ultimate secret of the Poetry Slam, that, as Allan Wolf said…
“The points are not the point. The point is the poetry.”