You might be a slam poet if…

…the only team you’ve ever been on included 3 other poets.
…you prefer judging someone silently, in a corner and pouting, rather than with numbers.
…you call running away from responsibility and commitments “going on tour.”
…you think your homemade book of poetry might be worth more than $5.00.
…you think someone will actually read said book of poetry.
…you have made a pact to never date another poet, but break that pact at the drop of a pants.
…you think 8.5 out of 10.0 is a low score.
…you bank all of your vacation time each year to go to the National Poetry Slam.
…you tell everybody at the National Poetry Slam that you’re on vacation and getting paid to be there.
…you wouldn’t dare go to the National Poetry Slam if you had to pay for it yourself.
…you are planning a tour as an excuse to move to another city.
…you sign up at literary readings and open mics to “blow them away” with your “performance skills.”
…you hope that [insert poet name] is going to be at [insert event] because they complimented your work that one time and you were sure they were hitting on you.
…you think a viable career path is: 1. Make a slam team; 2. Win Nationals; 3. Get record/movie/TV deal; 4. Become friends with celebrities; 5. Return to perform at local slam as a huge favor to the scene.
…you love conscious hip-hop AND some country.
…you’ve beaten other people in a competition of words with a poem about unity and peace.
…you’ve met Mos Def.
…you’ve bragged to others (who’ve never heard of poetry slam) that you’re on a slam team.
…you have many recipes for ramen noodles, cheap booze and own a counterfeit monthly bus pass.
…you think your poem about oral copulation can not only win a poetry slam, but also change the world’s view on sexuality.
…you think performing in three to ten venues a year is getting your work “out there/making a difference.”
…you are proud of your lowest score ever.
…you have cried for losing a poetry slam.
…you want to be the next Bukowski, Ginsberg and/or Kerouac.
…you are the next Plath.
…you are seeking fame and notoriety through pretty/vulgar three minute rants.
…still have a Myspace account because it’s where people can listen to your “tracks.”
…the old slam guard won’t acknowledge you.
…you wrote poetry at a coffee shop instead of going to college.
…you have five memorized poems and three of them “do well.”
…you’re “looking” for an agent, but don’t do stand-up, play an instrument, do magic/hypnosis, sing or juggle.
…you slept with anyone in Berkeley, California between 1998 and 2006.
…you’ve toured through Los Angeles and lost money.
…you watched Shane Koyczan’s Olympic performance on YouTube.
…two meals in one day and free drinks is “livin’ it up.”
…you can’t remember that one poet’s name, but you just love them to death.
…you complain about Starbucks, McDonald’s, or WalMart, but can be found at one at some point throughout the year.
…you have Kinko’s/copier experience and have been called “a connection.”
…you have tried out for every team in your region because people are expecting to see you at the National Poetry Slam.
…you wonder how your poems would fair in a New York/Boston/Chicago/Berkeley poetry slam.
…you look forward to traveling with people you can’t stand to an event full of people you can’t stand.
…you snap your fingers when something is good or someone is screwing up.
…you prefer your poetry scene to your own family.
…you’ve ended a full day at an all-night diner with a plate of fries or mozzarella sticks, a glass of water, surrounded by poets, all excited about the event you just left, and thought, “Man, what a great night.”

I guess I am a slam poet.
———
Word to the nerd.

(A first draft.)

Fucking loneliness…

Oh, what a laughable, horrible, gnarled loop of sadness you are.

How dare you come around again.
You were told last time you commandeered my bed and my room and my time and my bath towel:

Your service is questionable and ultimately reprehensible.

Most of the time,
I find you not worth the price of saltwater lubrication.

But I am learning that your first wave of attack, triggered too easily — be them songs, commercials, or the face of the one with whom my dreams think match me word for word — you fucking beastly rash, is the conductor that times and tunes me to the key of crying.

They are these wails, for that face or for this world, that are the girders and reinforcements within my chest, keeping you from crushing me to punctuation.

You abhorrent trend. You old English tongue: I just barely comprehend you. You are all too familiar in my ears and throat. I want you out of me and this house.

I will blast you with rock and rap and folk and laughter. I will serenade you with my lung songs that sound more like an abandoned pet at the bottom of my stomach. I will not give up on love or joy just because you have broken into my skull once more with your crowbar sadness. But indeed, you are very good at it. A formidable enemy. You are undoubtedly my truest foe.

I will overcome this crushing. I will crush back and do it in all of its meanings for all those you’ve terrorized. I will stompfuck you with lovefeet, you dancefloor of shit and misery. You ugly bristle. You kanker sore in my love mouth. I pull your teeth so not only will you stop biting, but to ensure your retreat.

You pox on all things sunny and warm. Evaporate your cold from this place. Extract all of this meanworld blood that is not mine.

See how I win? I have these words and hope.

So I win. I win. And you win this bucket of saltwater. Congratulations, fuckhole. Take your ocean pittance and be gone. I have love to champion and peace to welcome.

I hope, therefore, I win.

(A first draft.)

Fucking loneliness…

Oh, what a laughable, horrible, gnarled loop of sadness you are.

How dare you come around again.
You were told last time you commandeered my bed and my room and my time and my bath towel:

Your service is questionable and ultimately reprehensible.

Most of the time,
I find you not worth the price of saltwater lubrication.

But I am learning that your first wave of attack, triggered too easily — be them songs, commercials, or the face of the one with whom my dreams think match me word for word — you fucking beastly rash, is the conductor that times and tunes me to the key of crying.

They are these wails, for that face or for this world, that are the girders and reinforcements within my chest, keeping you from crushing me to punctuation.

You abhorrent trend. You old English tongue: I just barely comprehend you. You are all too familiar in my ears and throat. I want you out of me and this house.

I will blast you with rock and rap and folk and laughter. I will serenade you with my lung songs that sound more like an abandoned pet at the bottom of my stomach. I will not give up on love or joy just because you have broken into my skull once more with your crowbar sadness. But indeed, you are very good at it. A formidable enemy. You are undoubtedly my truest foe.

I will overcome this crushing. I will crush back and do it in all of its meanings for all those you’ve terrorized. I will stompfuck you with lovefeet, you dancefloor of shit and misery. You ugly bristle. You kanker sore in my love mouth. I pull your teeth so not only will you stop biting, but to ensure your retreat.

You pox on all things sunny and warm. Evaporate your cold from this place. Extract all of this meanworld blood that is not mine.

See how I win? I have these words and hope.

So I win. I win. And you win this bucket of saltwater. Congratulations, fuckhole. Take your ocean pittance and be gone. I have love to champion and peace to welcome.

I hope, therefore, I win.

Originally published at Mike McGee Town. You can comment here or there.

Dear, Laura Yes Yes,

In the last 24 hours, I have discovered how much more beautiful and strange you are. You were always one of those girls from home. Young and settled. I am glad you stopped in and made better friends of me. Worcester needs the “I-fuckin-do-what-I-need-to-do” of your hair and hips.

Your fire is a drive-in that others will stop to watch someday. I am lucky to get an early screening.

Your heart pumps sexy like it’s squat-sitting on the well of an endless supply. Your nose knows where it goes, but you haven’t finished drawing your maps. You will. You will erase them a couple of times, but you will get there. Call me when you do. I may point and laugh at the trajectory but I will applaud the journey.

NEVER FORGET THE JOURNEY.

I cannot wait for the world to cast you up into where you hope they’ll put you. They have the power to throw and you just need to let them do it. Be sure to love them when it happens and give it all back when you’re done.

We won’t be held up for what our names do, but we are certainly responsible for the words that come under them. Own them and give them away with leashes so people can get back to you. See the world. Find yourself a place that looks lovely, like a mirror. Stay a while. Maybe a porch. Maybe a couch. No matter. I want to run into you again anywhere, my friend.

Love,
McGee

Dear, Laura Yes Yes,

In the last 24 hours, I have discovered how much more beautiful and strange you are. You were always one of those girls from home. Young and settled. I am glad you stopped in and made better friends of me. Worcester needs the “I-fuckin-do-what-I-need-to-do” of your hair and hips.

Your fire is a drive-in that others will stop to watch someday. I am lucky to get an early screening.

Your heart pumps sexy like it’s squat-sitting on the well of an endless supply. Your nose knows where it goes, but you haven’t finished drawing your maps. You will. You will erase them a couple of times, but you will get there. Call me when you do. I may point and laugh at the trajectory but I will applaud the journey.

NEVER FORGET THE JOURNEY.

I cannot wait for the world to cast you up into where you hope they’ll put you. They have the power to throw and you just need to let them do it. Be sure to love them when it happens and give it all back when you’re done.

We won’t be held up for what our names do, but we are certainly responsible for the words that come under them. Own them and give them away with leashes so people can get back to you. See the world. Find yourself a place that looks lovely, like a mirror. Stay a while. Maybe a porch. Maybe a couch. No matter. I want to run into you again anywhere, my friend.

Love,
McGee

Originally published at Mike McGee Town. You can comment here or there.

HER CAT MUST BE AWESOME
© 2010 Mike McGee

She has to get home to feed her cat and I’m thinking, ‘Your cat is fine. It will survive a night without you.’

She says, “He can’t be alone overnight.”

I tell her I feel the same way all the time. And I actually have something to offer the world.

She says her cat’s special. It sounds like he’s saying ‘Reno’ when he meows.

“Reno?” I ask. As in “Reno, Nevada?”

“Yep.” She says emphatically. “Reno.”

“All the time? As in every time it meows?”

“No, only every once in a while, like when he’s really craving attention or needs to be brushed.”

“Oh.” I say. Oh.

I tell her that when I’m craving attention, I take my shirt off, exposing the Katherine Hepburn-shaped birthmark on my stomach and make it talk: ‘Hello, everybody! Got any more tequila?’

I just met you and I by now you must realize I am human and I have needs and I can love you, actually love you. I’m not jumping the gun here, but I am capable of real love, not this programmed feline, ‘you’re the keeper of the food, so I guess I’ll stick around,’ bullshit.

Does your cat have the ability to make a room laugh without it having anything to do with its own failure? Can it use a QWERTY keyboard? Does it understand how to code even a modicum of HTML? Can it Photoshop images of you to look like you have a handlebar mustache? I don’t thinks so!

I can do half of those things while I have soup cooking on the stove. See these thumbs!? Do you? DO YOU!!? These mean I win.

“You’re right.” She says coyly. And we boned right there at Taco Bell. Nine months later, we had 8 kittens.

They run my website now.
———
Word to the nerd.
Bunny up.

HER CAT MUST BE AWESOME
© 2010 Mike McGee

She has to get home to feed her cat and I’m thinking, ‘Your cat is fine. It will survive a night without you.’

She says, “He can’t be alone overnight.”

I tell her I feel the same way all the time. And I actually have something to offer the world.

She says her cat’s special. It sounds like he’s saying ‘Reno’ when he meows.

“Reno?” I ask. As in “Reno, Nevada?”

“Yep.” She says emphatically. “Reno.”

“All the time? As in every time it meows?”

“No, only every once in a while, like when he’s really craving attention or needs to be brushed.”

“Oh.” I say. Oh.

I tell her that when I’m craving attention, I take my shirt off, exposing the Katherine Hepburn-shaped birthmark on my stomach and make it talk: ‘Hello, everybody! Got any more tequila?’

I just met you and I by now you must realize I am human and I have needs and I can love you, actually love you. I’m not jumping the gun here, but I am capable of real love, not this programmed feline, ‘you’re the keeper of the food, so I guess I’ll stick around,’ bullshit.

Does your cat have the ability to make a room laugh without it having anything to do with its own failure? Can it use a QWERTY keyboard? Does it understand how to code even a modicum of HTML? Can it Photoshop images of you to look like you have a handlebar mustache? I don’t thinks so!

I can do half of those things while I have soup cooking on the stove. See these thumbs!? Do you? DO YOU!!? These mean I win.

“You’re right.” She says coyly. And we boned right there at Taco Bell. Nine months later, we had 8 kittens.

They run my website now.
———
Word to the nerd.
Bunny up.

Originally published at Mike McGee Town. You can comment here or there.

Geoff, once again!, inspired my list below, written in the voice of Barney Rubble.

My own personal list from December can be found here: 33 Things About Me

25 Things You May Not Know About Barney Rubble
© 2009 Mike McGee

1. While it doesn’t bother most of my friends or family, I don’t like calloused feet. Because of this, I prefer catching the bus to work or carpooling with Fred.

2. I took Wilma to our Junior Prom. I kissed her good night on my tippy toes. She leaned down for me. It was real nice.

3. I love gardening and planting vegetables. Nobody does it around here. They say it ain’t natural. They say I’m crazy to spend all that time in the dirt. I think people might get used to it.

4. I hate my job. It pays good, but them rocks is heavy and I’m too short for most things.

5. Fred saved my life twice. I’m pretty clumsy, but lucky that Fred’s always around to get my head out of tight situations. He has been my friend since F.D. Rockevelt Elementary School. We started out not liking each other though. I am glad that changed.

6. Betty’s older than me. Not a lot, but she’s taught me a lot of things about life and ladies. She’s a real good lady. Sweet as punch and super smart.

7. I would never name a kid after a sound. Bam Bam named himself. We had to let him cos he made such a loud fuss. I wanted to call him Matthew.

8. I feel really calm when I am sewing. Patching up holes in my skins, fixing up curtains and such. It makes me quiet. I like the quiet.

9. I also make these things out of soft hides that are like shirts for your legs. I’ve made two sets that I wear around the house to keep stuff warm from the waist down. I think people would laugh at me if I wore them outside the house though.

10. I don’t really like Fruity Pebbles all that much, I just like messin’ with Fred.

11. I ain’t never gone fishing or hunting. I don’t think I could do it.

12. Fred’s dog Dino was the son of my dog, Dina. He was the only one who lived outta the whole litter. Dina was the greatest dog ever. I miss her a whole lot. She was surely my best friend until Betty came around. I have never told this to Fred.

13. I really, really like how vegetables taste. Never really cared much for sabertooth steak. Betty says I’m like a bird. I guess I am weird for eating all these plants when there’s so much meat around.

14. People say nowadays that kids got no respect. That they don’t know what the world was like before we had fire. I remember, and it was real bad. I’m really glad they don’t gotta know what it was like. They were some dark times.

15. I always wanted to try stand-up comedy. I like it when people are happy. Laughing is so great. I love to laugh.

16. I don’t like getting into sticky situations with Fred. I think it hurts Wilma and Pebbles the most. Fred didn’t use to be like that.

17. My favorite color is brown. If I could paint, I would use a lot of it.

18. Betty don’t want no more kids. I want a daughter. Bam Bam would be so protective of his little sister. I would name her Fiona.

19. I am fascinated with volcanoes.

20. I once started a business selling flowers. We went outta business in the first year.

21. I am a really good pool player. I like angles and figuring out how to hit the rocks into the holes.

22. I think we use animals too much for everyday things. We seem to be getting real lazy.

23. I like pie. Any kind of pie. I’ll even eat a meat pie. But I’m not very good at making them.

24. I have a diary I scratch into every once in while. Had it ever since high school. First  time I put something down on rock was the day I met Betty. She hasn’t aged a day since. In my whole life, she’s the only thing I fought for and won.

25. I had a girlfriend in high school who used to get roughed up by her dad. She would stay at my house after school and eat dinner with my family. She never wanted to go home. We all really liked her, but they moved around a lot so we lost touch for a while. She’s the one who really got me into a different kind of thinking. She taught me about gardening. When her dad passed away, she married a rich guy and they moved around a lot, but this time, it was really nice, big houses. I met him once. Good guy. He thanked me for keeping her happy. They always send us gift baskets from across the world. I miss her laugh. She was fun. It’s been ten years since she visited. I hope she’s okay.

Originally published at Mike McGee Town. You can comment here or there.

On Monday night, at MACLA in downtown San José, California, I hosted the return of the San José Poetry Slam. The co-slammasters at the helm are Kat Dietrich and Chris Bundy, who finally made the move to bring the slam to MACLA (with lots of pressure on my part) after a two-year run at Britannia Arms pub on Santa Clara Street.

The night couldn’t have been any better, with newer local favorite Chris Locksin running the door,  Tristissima at the scorekeeper’s table, and about 50 people ready to slam or witness slam, Silicon Valley Style.

Students Liam and Lorian drove all the way down from Dominican University, which lies well north of San Francisco. Liam took loads of pictures throughout the night for a school project. Max Hare came down from Stanford University and made it all the way to the second round. Turns out there’s a hefty handful of Stanford kids who love performing and slamming, and with his skill on the mic, I imagine he one of their leaders.

The doors opened at 7:30pm and people began signing up right away. With MACLA being an all ages venue, it was heartwarming to see some of my youth poetry students finally get a chance to weigh their words on the same stage with older slam veterans such as Kim Johnson and Anis Mojgani, who performed a subtle, stellar feature between two marvelous rounds of poetry. There were poetry fans of all ages chanting and lauding his verses as he performed the first slam feature of the year – and of this new venue – in the welcoming, darkened, black box theater.

We had a more-than-full sign up list for Round 1, taking on 11 slammers, narrowing the field down to the top 5 for Round 2. It felt like old times for me in a room full of new faces, many of whom drove from Santa Cruz or the East Bay and San Francisco just to be there.  So many in fact, that all five of the 2nd Rounders were from everywhere but San José.

Third place went to Dusty Rose of Berkeley.
Second Place went to Baraka Noel of Berkeley.
First place went to Kevin Holmes of UC-Santa Cruz.

Along with our standard cash prizes, I gave out a mini “We Own The Night” poster for third, and let Baraka and Kevin duke it out over a mini “Superbad” poster and my Young MC tape. The tape ended up making a new home in Berkeley.

At the end of the night, as people helped stack chairs and mingle, Chris Bundy and I celebrated the success of the show. It truly felt like a re-birth. MACLA has been a haven for some of our slam finals and Battles of the Bay, but now it is definitely our home to stay.  We were so happy last night.

In 1998, I began performing shortly before the very first San José Poetry Slam, just two blocks away from MACLA, in what used to be Café Babylon. That was in the fall. Ten years, five slammasters, and four venues later, we’re back on the street we started – First Street. Kind of poetic, really. The venue is perfect for us, and vice versa.

So we’ll be running every 2nd Monday of the month at MACLA. I intend to host through June, and hopefully onward from there. The next SJPS is March 10, 2008. It six bucks at the door. Sign up is at 7:30pm, show at 8:00pm. Come have a great time with us.
–––––––––
Word to the nerd.
2008: Doing it!