TO THE SLAM PAPI,
Here’s what I don’t know, amigo, Why are you pushing all these god damn pc poets who spend two seconds thinking and ten minutes puking their half-cocked opinions on stage to people who you, Mr. So What Smith, encourage to applaud even when they don’t agree with the shit they hear but are too scared you’ll come down on them if they didn’t. Christ you’re supposed to be hard ass Mr. Man of the People or at least that’s what the hype says.
I’ve been sitting in the back for some months now and you haven’t even glanced my way. You walk by, I nod you right in the face, and you rush past to get that stupid board where the poets sign up to read. I even wrote a phony name on the card once and you didn’t even get it. “PC 101”
“PC 101, are you here? Where are you PC 101? Going once, Going twice. You’re gone.” So you said.
But I wasn’t. I was sitting in the back watching how you didn’t have a clue. How everything is a big ha ha to you.
And do you know who won the slam that night? Elastic. That was her nom de plume. Elastic. And her puke poem was about how we all needed to expand our consciousness and nourish our receptive natures. She was dressed in a rig that looked like it was made of rubber bands,
Speak of stars and you speak of specks.
Speak of the ebony background
And you speak of the fabric of all
That is Holy.
Wholly in her head.
I’m about to give up on you Smith. The one night I had hope was the night you blasted the guy in front for yawning. You blasted him with your true asshole nature not the PC pretense you package and sell.
Look at me sometime. I’m the one with the finger up.
R
