The Grand Slam (and a poem)
Last night was the Grand Slam for iWPS at Writers' Block. Packed house, awesome response, lots of new folks, solid open mic. Rachel did the do. Great show!
Thanks to the last two weeks of wins, I made it in. Felt good about that, but hadn't prepped for the Grand Slam. I promise, I wasn't doing that sabotage thing I've done before; I was BUSY this week, son. So yesterday I was facing a big-time slam with no new poems. This after having had at least one new poem (or new edits) for each of the slams preceeding it.
So I wrote three new poems yesterday afternoon and cast fate to the wind.
The poems - "To My Buddy, Near the End of His Bachelor Party" (3-minute poem), "How To Make a Crackhead" (2-minute poem) and "When Your White Friend Says 'Nigger' By Accident" (1-minute poem) - turned out really well. I LIKE them. Really. Want-to-use-them-in-features like. Something I've noticed about my recent work is that it practically requires the title be stated to contextualize, so I've had to edit the work for slams so I can do that, break, then start. I have to cut about 3-5 lines to make that transition work under time.
"To My Buddy..." is done with a drunk narrator, which was fun to do. I just imagine Harlym 125 talking (as opposed to his performance persona, which is very different than how he is in person) and then "Scott it up" a little. Slurring, lots of "son"..fun stuff. I think the poem was a little hard on the institution of marriage for a slam, and the language wasn't that safe, so it was a risk. But I was going to do it no matter what because I refused to pull out any old work for this slam, so that was that. besides: i pulled a 2. I needed something with some performance to it.
In the second round I did "How To Make a Crackhead", which is a title and concept I've been kicking around a long time but never had the balls to set to paper. Set it down yesterday. Came out like the new poem last week did: like water. Apparently the true stories work that way for me. That one is my favorite of the new poems. I haven't worked out the change in voices yet, but I pulled it off last night okay considering. Will prop up the hood and re-work the last line while I'm checking for tweaks later. This one got me interesting reactions,but the most interesting was announcing the title and hearing the crowd laugh because they thought I was going to do a funny poem again. Hadn't anticipated that.
Third round, 1-minute, "When Your White Friend..." at bat. Another "manual" poem. I like this one too, but didn't realize the last line would go over as well as it did, let alone as funny. I think it was the way I said it. In any event, I liked it, so I'll keep it that way.
Came in second by a couple of points. Tough but consistent judges! I loved them. A great night, and again, congrats to Ed Plunkett, who brought the thunder!
If you read this far you deserve this: here is "How To Make a Crackhead".
HOW TO MAKE A CRACKHEAD
In high school, lead her on.
Let her write you notes in class,
beautiful professions of love beyond her years.
Never respond.
Let her buy you lunch.
Never reciprocate.
Knock her milk over.
Never sit with her.
Never act like you know her.
Make her the ugly one,
the one it’s okay to laugh at on buses.
Laugh at her.
Start the joke that makes others laugh at her.
Smack her neck in class.
Then, when no one is looking,
kiss her.
Let her take you in her arms,
her tongue full and moving for you.
Kiss her back.
Kiss her like love fills you up at her touch.
Make the footnote in her love letters come alive.
Kiss her with your eyes open to see if anyone can see you.
Let her see you with your eyes open.
Apologize, tell her you’ll make it up to her.
Take her to the locker room.
Make love.
Take her to the auditorium.
Make love.
Take her to a hooptie in the parking lot.
Make love.
Give her things to write about in her diary for weeks, a year
Let her find herself in you.
Show her how to make love.
Enjoy.
Then smack her neck in class again.
Disown her.
Pretend it never happened.
Strangle the words out of her like a drunk’s last drop.
Ignore her when anyone else is around,
love her where no one will know.
Graduate.
Fuck her.
Move on.
Forget her number.
Forget her middle name.
Forget the smell of jheri curls in a locker room.
Grow up.
Be a man, grow up.
Be a man, learn love, then lose it.
Cry like men cry.
Love like men love.
Grow cool and Super Bowl-esque and modern.
See her on the street and remember.
See her on the street walking too fast on too-small legs,
shorts too short for fall.
Remember.
Feel guilty.
See her look at you outside a carry-out,
a smile with memories for teeth.
Hug her quick anyway.
Let jheri curls fill your neck.
Remember.
Remember the woman you killed
when you strangled the girl with your tongue.
Thanks to the last two weeks of wins, I made it in. Felt good about that, but hadn't prepped for the Grand Slam. I promise, I wasn't doing that sabotage thing I've done before; I was BUSY this week, son. So yesterday I was facing a big-time slam with no new poems. This after having had at least one new poem (or new edits) for each of the slams preceeding it.
So I wrote three new poems yesterday afternoon and cast fate to the wind.
The poems - "To My Buddy, Near the End of His Bachelor Party" (3-minute poem), "How To Make a Crackhead" (2-minute poem) and "When Your White Friend Says 'Nigger' By Accident" (1-minute poem) - turned out really well. I LIKE them. Really. Want-to-use-them-in-features like. Something I've noticed about my recent work is that it practically requires the title be stated to contextualize, so I've had to edit the work for slams so I can do that, break, then start. I have to cut about 3-5 lines to make that transition work under time.
"To My Buddy..." is done with a drunk narrator, which was fun to do. I just imagine Harlym 125 talking (as opposed to his performance persona, which is very different than how he is in person) and then "Scott it up" a little. Slurring, lots of "son"..fun stuff. I think the poem was a little hard on the institution of marriage for a slam, and the language wasn't that safe, so it was a risk. But I was going to do it no matter what because I refused to pull out any old work for this slam, so that was that. besides: i pulled a 2. I needed something with some performance to it.
In the second round I did "How To Make a Crackhead", which is a title and concept I've been kicking around a long time but never had the balls to set to paper. Set it down yesterday. Came out like the new poem last week did: like water. Apparently the true stories work that way for me. That one is my favorite of the new poems. I haven't worked out the change in voices yet, but I pulled it off last night okay considering. Will prop up the hood and re-work the last line while I'm checking for tweaks later. This one got me interesting reactions,but the most interesting was announcing the title and hearing the crowd laugh because they thought I was going to do a funny poem again. Hadn't anticipated that.
Third round, 1-minute, "When Your White Friend..." at bat. Another "manual" poem. I like this one too, but didn't realize the last line would go over as well as it did, let alone as funny. I think it was the way I said it. In any event, I liked it, so I'll keep it that way.
Came in second by a couple of points. Tough but consistent judges! I loved them. A great night, and again, congrats to Ed Plunkett, who brought the thunder!
If you read this far you deserve this: here is "How To Make a Crackhead".
HOW TO MAKE A CRACKHEAD
In high school, lead her on.
Let her write you notes in class,
beautiful professions of love beyond her years.
Never respond.
Let her buy you lunch.
Never reciprocate.
Knock her milk over.
Never sit with her.
Never act like you know her.
Make her the ugly one,
the one it’s okay to laugh at on buses.
Laugh at her.
Start the joke that makes others laugh at her.
Smack her neck in class.
Then, when no one is looking,
kiss her.
Let her take you in her arms,
her tongue full and moving for you.
Kiss her back.
Kiss her like love fills you up at her touch.
Make the footnote in her love letters come alive.
Kiss her with your eyes open to see if anyone can see you.
Let her see you with your eyes open.
Apologize, tell her you’ll make it up to her.
Take her to the locker room.
Make love.
Take her to the auditorium.
Make love.
Take her to a hooptie in the parking lot.
Make love.
Give her things to write about in her diary for weeks, a year
Let her find herself in you.
Show her how to make love.
Enjoy.
Then smack her neck in class again.
Disown her.
Pretend it never happened.
Strangle the words out of her like a drunk’s last drop.
Ignore her when anyone else is around,
love her where no one will know.
Graduate.
Fuck her.
Move on.
Forget her number.
Forget her middle name.
Forget the smell of jheri curls in a locker room.
Grow up.
Be a man, grow up.
Be a man, learn love, then lose it.
Cry like men cry.
Love like men love.
Grow cool and Super Bowl-esque and modern.
See her on the street and remember.
See her on the street walking too fast on too-small legs,
shorts too short for fall.
Remember.
Feel guilty.
See her look at you outside a carry-out,
a smile with memories for teeth.
Hug her quick anyway.
Let jheri curls fill your neck.
Remember.
Remember the woman you killed
when you strangled the girl with your tongue.