the birth of a slam poem is earth-shatteringly awesome

what is more awesome than a hungry pen

and its blue/black bite marks on the blank back of a throwaway page

a spasm, a stanza

the first flirtatious hint of a deep, soulful connection

the square and the sucka, the pig and the prophet forgotten

there’s only the present

the presence of pen, paper

and whole veins full of ink

whole oceans unfulfilled

until the glorious injurious nib scratches a syllable

over a paper snowscape

then come sea changes, endless twisting phrases

mutating phases of double-helixed entangled teenage mumbo-jumbo

hieroglyphs and punches and kisses and pages upon pages of beautiful life,

instants caught in the amber of the mind,

every verse becomes an odyssey through time,

a belted-out ballad bending the backs and splitting the spines of notebooks

what is born is so gorgeously melodious

as is the spoken word

hearing others belt their love, hate, heartbreak

through the wire with fire on their tumbling tangled tongues

pouring their souls through a speaker’s perforated back

the verses percolating back into the minds of those present

those who present a powerful postulate

in poetry John Lennon can rest in peace

there is no possession

there is universal pride

there is an endless supply of soul-food,

and hunger is just a pause between lines.

 

pain is merely a refrain in the symphony of joyous exaltation

for poetry is the church of the human spirit,

attended by an army of flower-children,

a cynical silver-tongue at war with his heart of gold,

back-talkers and wise-guys,

tomboys and punks,

old men and whippersnappers,

hip-hop gurus and jazz-slingin’ trumpeters

thumpin’ the gospels they write for themselves

the lesson is simple:

hate is irrelevant

love is imperative

even if you’re American

arrogance is a waste

when embracing the elation

of inhalation, exclamation

and lyrical exhalation

isolation is nothing,

you have brothers and sisters in a slam show’s seats

you have a pairing of parents in the perilous prose of prehistoric poets

you have a pen and pad

you have hate by the balls and love in your arms

and you are awesome.