chaoward (chaoward) wrote in ____slam,
chaoward
chaoward
____slam

so this was supposed to be my interview poem
the one where i talk about getting offstage and somebody in the crowd asks me what poetry means to me
or some other inane shit
and then i've got to jam my hands in my pockets and screw my face up like i'm contemplating the world's deepest mysteries
and respond with some esoteric bit of wordplay like my tongue's the philosopher's stone
and every single word that i speak is the elixir of life
like i dipped the spear of destiny into the holy grail and etched out the commandments that christ forgot about
like listening to my shit's gonna unlock some mystical doorway to heal the whole world
so i'm some contemporary jesus figure; standing over the audience like they're the lepers
as if some speck of spittle would fall from my lips and hit the floor and that would deem a yearly pilgrimage to the very spot where there would be a shrine erected in my honor
as if to say i get up and do this for anyone but my own goddamn self...
which i don't
this is a reality check poem
you can file all complaints, comments and criticisms at the foot of the stage
we'll get the red correction pens out and pick me apart later, but for right now: some clarification
you see, trying to understand the poet through their poetry is like searching high and low for the love of your life...
in a chat room
because on paper everybody is a 5'9 scandanavian bikini model with a 185 IQ and 4 master's degrees in academic sciences
and everyone else is a rugged ex-kickboxer who cries when he paints
and really loves puppies
so it only stands to reason that these meticulously arranged, edited and revised words ACTUALLY explain the person who i truly am, right?
i am not some thousand-fold reincarnated super-being sent to cleanse the earth
i was fucking stoned, and needed a rhyme scheme to end a poem with
i'm just another asshole who's apparent profession is polishing turds
but i can shine shit with the best of em, so take a note
because when the poet performs loudly...
it's usually just to hear the sound of our own voice, and i'll be the first to admit it:
i'm just a chain smoking, booze drinking, loudmouth ass mother fucker peddling nothing more than beautified bullshit, so
if you've had your fill for the evening take a step back and clear space for someone who actually came to listen, but before you go, i want you to know one thing
that this poem tonight is dedicated to you
written specifically for those who aren't paying attention
whether it's because your ass is too drunk at the bar to notice anything outside the rim of your own glass
or you're just too cool for this whole spoken word thing, i want to thank you
i want to thank you for focusing nothing more than the back of your head at my entire performance because you remind me exactly who i come out here for:
mostly myself; but also the few people with eyes tuned to this section of the stage
the folks in the back who can't see me but strain to listen
those who come out week after week to watch poets bleed on stage like it was some sort of a church pulpit
and especially for every pretty young girl who has fucked me full of inspiration, be it mentally or physically
especially for them
so whether or not you remember my name when i leave this stage is irrelevant
because good, bad or indifferent this right here to me, is accomplishment
and i'm only here to impress myself, my loved ones, and my peers, in that order
so you can nod your head and clap when i finish, or you can just go on drinking
because i'ma go on writing, either way
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