Thrifting for a Green Jacket

Went into last night’s Grand Slam, looking to compete, have fun and not come in sixth place out of six poets. That was my goal.

The luck of the draw had me going last in the first round. It did not hurt. Judging was randomly harsh at times. There were a lot of 6.9’s given out, and not just by one judge. There was always one really low score after each poet read, very strange.

I did After Birth which did well enough to put me in second place at the end of round one. I was quite alright with this, since I really messed up a line. Scores were still fairly close.

In round two I brought out the energy and humor by doing My Thunder, a boastful and wacked out poem which had me banging on the floor with my foot, making dogs bark in Worthington and killing off megadik. Quite the crowd pleaser and for whatever reasons the judges gave it very high marks. Again with the weird judging, one gave it a 6.9, then it got 9’s and a ten. The highest scoring poem in the round, by far. Not unlike Bob Beamon’s long jump in Mexico City in 1968, it really stood out.

Going into the one minute round I had a substantial lead. Thing is, I’m very weak with one minute poems. Brought out another new one, a list poem called Things That I Have Killed, added the last line of, “My chances in this poetry slam,” and waited to be zoomed past.

It scored decently, higher than it deserved but one by one each poet in the round was not getting the points necessary to overtake me. I think it was when Vernell read, Beverly told me she needed a high 29 to beat me. I shook my head in disbelief that I was actually going to win this thing.

It’s been a happy daze, these last eighteen hours, soaking in what happened last night. I could not have done it without the support of my wife and all the good people of Writer’s Block who have shown me endless and unconditional support for the past three and a half years.

It was pointed out that I am the first white male to represent WB at any national poetry event. Whitey finally earned something! That’s a joke, kids.

This has been a wild year of poetry, from getting second place at Arts Fest to representing WB at IWPS, it’s been filled with some honors I hope I am worthy of receiving.

I also have to mention the incident earlier this year, in which my work was called out after a slam as being prime motivation to do not necessarily better work, but to show that I can be who I am onstage. That the other person who was called out made the Nats team, and my accolades show where those words went. Spam Folder of Love is not the poem I want to be known for writing, (and never did) that poem has yet to be written. Maybe ‘Thunder’ will be yelled out now before I read, I’d prefer that, for awhile, and no more conflict.

Again, I started out with nothing in the tank when I started this but ego, a need for catharsis and a desire to share my work and be heard. It’s been quite dramatic at times, much fun and outright surreal. I can’t thank the people who make the night at Writer’s Block enough and will do my best in Berkeley. Because I have a lot more to prove now.

Much love and respect.