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“Shit in a condom

Put it in the freezer

Fuck me with it later”

-Christine Hatch

(From THUNDERSLAM)

For those who don’t know, I teach poetry at NYU. I have one student this semester (its an independent study thang, hoping for more than one in the fall). Mallory is her name. Shes awesome. When we first met she just wanted to have someone push her to write and help her learn to perform better. The idea of actually ‘slamming’ or competing was not something she was super-comfy with yet.

Fast forward to last night. Urbana is holding THUNDERSLAM. To breifly explain, thunderslam has one poet declare on the microphone “I AM THE GREATEST DIRY HAIKU WRITER OF ALL TIME and to prove this i will wager this PILLOW IN THE SHAPE OF BOOBS to any challenger who wishes to confront me!!”

Then someone else in the audience who thinks theyre a better dirty haiku artist stands up and challenges the poet to battle. They produce some other random object to wager. (for instance, last night we saw santa hats, scrabble express, tshirts, belts, a bra, a shiny headband, several random vhs cassettes, all wagered throughout the night) The poets then each read their dirty haiku and the three judges hold up red or yellow cards to determine the winner. The winner secures all the booty and makes the next challenge “I AM THE GREATEST FOOD-POEM WRITER ON EARTH!!” et cetera et cetera. Last poet standing at 930pm is the thunderslam champion.

Got that? Cool.

So Mallory comes ready to rock for her first ever ‘slam’. Shes got a sparkly headband to wager, and three poems she hopes will be relevant to someones challenge. She totally misses an oppurtunity to do her “nerd-love” poem when Jamie Martin does basically her exact poem in reverse, including one line thats actually identical to hers. Were both flabbergasted.

Ion is at the mic. (2009 Nuyorican Grand Slam Champion). He has just dispensed with a challenger and declares his next challenge that his is “the greatest tribute poem writer in history”

I see a blur from my right side and Mallory is streaking towards the stage to challenge one of the more decorated NYC poets to battle. She slams down a sparkly headband on the pile of assorted junk that has accumulated over the course of the evening. She does her Spice Girls poem.

The fucking room collapses in on itself. Kicking screaming laughter. Ion is behind her shaking his head. She finishes and recieves a standing ovation, in her first ever competition of any sort.

Ion launches a comback that falls just short. The clock strikes 9:30, Mallory Blair is thunderslam champion.

Holy shit. After handshaking and hugging everyone in the room who are now obsessed with her, she hands me half of a infants car-seat from her pile of swag. A token of victory.

And that, is why i arrived home last night carrying a car seat.

Michael Scott: as it so happens, im writing a book…its called “Somehow I Manage” and theres gonna be a picture of me on the cover, shrugging my shoulders with my sleeves rolled up.  

Bar Manager: really, you ever read lee iacocca’s book? its a classic. 

Michael Scott: read it? I own it.

i watched the latest office episode on hulu last night, and it was one of the best fucking episodes ive seen in a long time. fucking michael scott. good lord.

Because the microphone slouches like a bad boy
whose neck I want to choke.

Because sometimes the poem punches its way
off my tongue, and other times it needs to be
dragged out of my ribcage by its hair.

Because I have said things in front
of a roomful of strangers that I would never
say to my own mother and for good reason.

Because I have heard poets say things
in front of roomful of strangers that made me
pulse, made me sweat, made me want to push
further, risk everything, be that beautiful.

Because sometimes I have felt that beautiful.
Because sometimes I have felt ugly too
and it was okay.

Because I still have stories to tell.

Because I have had my heart broken.
Because I have had my heart broken and survived.
Because I have had my heart broken, survived
and someone told me the poem I wrote about it sucked.

Because I survived that too.

Because the bear hugs, because the uh-huhs,
because of the venomous looks people give
to the guy whose cellphone starts ringing.
Hey, asshole! Can’t you see we are
listening to poetry here!

Because people are listening to poetry here.

Because there is poetry here, every cracked voice,
every stutter, every stumble is poetry. Every
shaky piece of paper held by shaky hands,
every nervous laugh, every awkward pause: poetry.

Every braided head, every untied shoelace,
every spilled beer, every Yo, this is first time
I’m doing this, every Man, it’s been a minute,
it feels good to be back, every time the poet
says, This is some new shit and people
in the audience lean forward like a dare,
like they are looking for a light,
and the poet’s flint be sparking.

Because some nights I didn’t feel like it
and it seemed like those were the nights
I needed it the most.

Because I’ve won, and it didn’t make me
more of poet.

Because I’ve lost, and it didn’t make me
less of poet.

Because I’ve cheered until my throat ran raw,
laughed and cried and fell on the damn floor
like a fool, for poetry.

Because I am a fool for the poetry.

Because of the poetry.

Because this, all of this,
is poetry.

-Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz