If you look at us, we’re an odd threesome to be hitting a poetry slam. I disdain poetry. Except for Bukowski. Mostly I think poets are emotional masturbators. Drew, well I suspect Drew’s sneaking around to music clubs doing open mic night but not poetry clubs. Michael is the one who might do a poetry slam. But if he has he hasn’t told his filmmaker brethren about it.
[We are all filmmakers. But, as filmmakers, we are supposed to be above “art” on one plane, and all about “art” on another. We live in a weird place, we filmmakers.]
But. Michael was coming to town. Drew had been corralled and was going too. And I need to leave the house more often because if I do not I may grow an umbilical cord to this computer. So I put on pretty shoes and off I went to this “poetry slam.”
I did not think I would like it. I have never been to a “poetry slam” and really all I was thinking was, Haight Ashbury 1960’s, wow this could seriously be a bad fashion and hair nightmare —
Okay, it really was a bad fashion and hair nightmare [also the beards and sideburns ahh!] but also? The poets were really good. Like “open a vein and make you feel and think” good which is what good writing is about.
I have favorites now too. Which is a little traumatic. But hey, these poets are getting shipped off to other states for competitive poetry mayhem and I am rooting for them.
My one piece of advice? Go on last. The scores appear to go up along with the volume of alcohol the judges have consumed. Take advantage of that.