​Author's Note: I like to go out into the world and write poetry about whatever is happening. That was the case with this poem. I had volunteered for the 2017 Individual World Poetry Slam, in Spokane, Washington. It was an amazing experience. I got to work, judge, and read (non-competitively) with some of the best performance poets, out there, today. It was incredibly inspirational. And I have carried that energy forward into my live performances and marathon poetry features.

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Individual World Poetry Slam 2017 Afterparty


Poetry weekend. Championship days and nights--
poets pouring out their souls, in resounding exaltations,
from all 'round The English-speaking Globe
(American English, specifically).

After party, A Winner: decided.
'Twas The Wild Card, named: Arvind.
And now they are DONE.
And NOW, they DANCE, without recompense
or thought, for what MAY come.

Now, here are The Canterbury Spinner Competitors--
bouts fit for feat of word and WILD stagebound posturing.
I search not for corporeal validation.
Because I find it ONLY in truth--
TRUTH and REVELATION beyond The “OH!,” simply.

WHY do I seem to be the only one WRITING?
I am writing under R.G.B. Prismatic disco ball-reflected light--
AFTER MIDNIGHT-- after The Long Push.
One, made evident, with The Exhaustion, The Confusion and ALL else.

Poetry weekend. I swore not to cast judgment,
and in effect, set myself up to be chosen as A Judge,
after being beseeched by organizers: NO LIARS.
Not here. Not when you are bearing Your Soul
and EVERYTHING ELSE inside.

And a lot of individuals, they may not be UP for The Ride.
Outside-- there comes drunken squealing, from next door.
A voice-- not in search of truth, but merely drink and reveling.
Where am I heading?
Hopefully towards The Glaring and Unavoidable Light of Clarity.

THAT is WHAT MATTERS, to ME: CLARITY.
It's The Only Way we are EVER going to be able to
SEE ANYTHING, around here.
And it lies in these glimpses--
glimpses of truth, within these poetic spirits.

My Spirit-- it joineth with them--
incomparably-- occasionally incomprehensibly.
SPOKANE STORY. SEARCHING--
continual, and thereupon unrelenting.
Take heed NOT to words condescending--
INSTEAD: ASCENDING, as opposed to
ultimately obstructing-- OTHER THAN JUSTICE.

All that shall EVER have ANY hope of survival,
are those of US who have made The Choice
to give A Fervent and Complete Voice to
Our Emotions and Feelings and wheeling and dealings--
OUR STORY-- not just simply An Ancient Allegory--
not Greek nor Roman.

WE are OUR OWN GOD'S FORGOTTEN SONS AND DAUGHTERS.
Smiles. Laughter. Slaughter. ONSLAUGHT.
Onslaught: with words and mind both liquored and sober
and MAD and SANE and EVERYTHING
except what could make both me and thee BLIND.

I'm not talking.
I'm standing, at The Back, at The Edge,
at The Precipice where I stood many-a-time,
with both A Crown upon My Head and
A Noose threaded upon My Neck.
IT DID NOT BREAK
when I LEAPT off those chairs.
IT DID NOT BREAK
when I LEAPT off that picnic table--
OFF The Very Edge of Mine Own Torment'd Soul.
OH! OH!!!!!!!!!!!

These are the kinds of poems, I write.
These are the movements and moments of humanity,
that move me.
I can't wait, truly, until it cometh again.
And these emotive scribbling ink slash-stabbings GIVE BIRTH--
AND AFTERBIRTH, to literary and verbal fecundity.

Follow ME.
We'll DISCOVER ALL--
unsung songs-- unsung epic sagas of LIFE
and The Streets and ALL ELSE.
Names-- withheld.
Not so much The Passion, contained exponentially, therein.