(Taken from a post by Klute!)
There will be 3 monthly slams before the slamoff - January 28th, 2011, February 25th, 2011, and March 25th, 2011.
10 poets will make it to the slamoff on April 29th, 2011. Here's how they will qualify:
1. The winner and runner-up of each slam will automatically be qualified for the slam-off. If there six unique 1st and 2nd place poets, six slots within the 10 poet lineup are considered filled. If there are only 5 unique 1st and 2nd place poets (let's say Poet X wins the January slam and comes in 2nd in February, but the remaining 1st and 2nd place poets are different people), then only 5 slots are considered filled), and so on. It is possible that only 2 slots will be filled before the slamoff on April 29th.
2. The remaining 4 to 8 slots will be filled by poets cumulative scores for the three slams. If Poet X scores a 72 in January, a 82.3 in February, and 84.9 in March, but did not win a slam, he will have a cumulative score of 239.2 for the season. The poets with the most points will make it into the remaining slots available.
3. If a poet hosts a slam, they will be given a score for that slam that is the average of scores for that slam. A host who wishes to qualify for the slamoff will be required to compete in at least one of the three slams.
The slamoff will be seeded with the poets who won first place in three slams ordered by score. Second place poets will then be ordered by score. The remaining slots will be ordered by cumulative score for all three slams. Ties will be broken by a spirited game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. The top ranking poet will choose the order of the slamoff. If they choose go first, then the slamoff is ordered with the top ranked poet going first, the 2nd ranked poet going second, so on. If they choose to go last, then the lowest ranked poet goes first, and so on.
Top 4 poets from the Slamoff will make it onto the Tombstone Poets NPS team. If any poet drops off or is removed by the coach, the coach may select any poet who competed during the slam season to fill the vacancy. The coach is NOT required to select a poet who competed in the slamoff, regardless of rank in the slamoff.
iWPS season will be from May to July, the slamoff in August.
WoW season will be from September to December, the slamoff in January.
Direct any questions to the Tombstone Poets slammaster, The Klute, at therealklute@yahoo.com.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
irrational numbers
It's been a long time. I posted "the final countdown" with the claim that it was less autobiographical, but that was a crock of shit. I was miserable for months. I started carpooling, so I wouldn't risk driving alone.
My apartment was so infested with bedbugs that I was hallucinating. Apparently that's a side effect of the damn things. My roommate was never around, and accordingly gave so little of a shit that two months' worth of warning that I wanted to break the lease and peace meant he was surprised when that day finally came. He demanded I pay the penalties, and rather than end up tearing him limb-from-limb, or calmly debate the issue, I paid and left.
I wrecked my car in the middle of January, so I guess I don't have to worry about kissing bridge pylons anymore. The irony here is that I had been trying to write a poem combining love with mathematical terms since summertime, when I started writing "all's fair." The concept of combining love with military terms proved a much easier one to finish than one combining love with mathetmatical ones - go figure. In December, I received an out-of-the-blue email from my ex, with the link to a youtube video detailing the Fibonacci sequence in a Tool song. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wS7CZIJVxFY)
It was a great, seismic click within myself. I watched the video, and I allowed myself to smile, to remember (or realize) that there was something great, good, and powerful that kept that relationship running for so long. I also realized that to make this poem work, I would need to put myself under the constraint of writing the whole damn thing in a Fibonacci spiral. I spent winter break writing and deleting syllables and circles; two weeks after I crashed my car, I finished the poem.
I spent the afternoon standing on my front porch, practicing performing in my underwear as the sun set. I felt alive inside for the first time in weeks - months - or at least, in a way I hadn't felt alive in so long. I felt like I was "back," like I had found myself again, in some healthy way.
Life, of course, had other plans. It is always far more convoluted than you would think.
I went to Fair Trade that night, to find that it was Tombstone - the first of three tryouts to prove myself worthy of a slot in the Southwest Shoot-out. The Southwest Shoot-out determines the members of this year's nationals team at the National Poetry Slam in August. This was what I had heard about last year, and that I had wanted to be a part of; here was my dumb self showing up too late to sign up for the slam, and already reducing my chances to be on the team.
Then, the cough I had had for the last week developed into bronchitis, and as I kept trying to go to work, deepened into pneumonia. I've spent the last two weeks wheezing instead of breathing, coughing until I vomit (or shit myself), and unable to muster the energy to put together a new slam, or edit my older poems into three-minute versions.
Three doctor visits have got me tentatively back on my feet, and breathing almost normally again. I just spent the last two hours working on cutting old poems down, trying to get them lean, tight, and inside of three minutes. I'll put up the new slam versions as soon as I finish them - some are down to 3:10, others are further away.
But as I'm sitting here, feeling this energy again, I thought I'd put up "irrational numbers." Its incubation - from a poem about the faith needed where numbers fail, as a love/math counterpart to a love/war poem, to something boosted by an email from someone who has spawned no small amount of inspiration has been a long one. It seems to tie into the beautiful cosmic coincidence that occurred the day I wrecked Tiny Car that this poem went through that incubation - and especially, the initial idea - to develop into an upbeat poem.
I write few enough of those, and Michelle pointed out that it seemed like I was changing (for the better), and rebuilding myself. I don't know. I thought I was feeling better, and then microbes and viruses started skullfucking me with renewed vigor. I do like having this poem on my arm (metaphorically, to clarify for those who know my penchant for needles). And the cosmic coincidence? I crashed my car - which I dearly loved - and in the same hour, ran into a girl I loved, the one who was there when I bought the car. She offered me a ride home. We never got a beer - life is not *quite* that easy - but I made it home, laughed it off, and finished a poem that started in sadness with smiles. I'd written about killing myself in Tiny Car; now she's gone; and on the same day, I saw (and felt happy about seeing) a person who I hadn't seen in years.
Oh, fuck it. I can't put it all into some nice, neat timeline. I felt like there might be one there, but who knows. Point is, the poem feels beautiful. Around the same time, I had a beautiful coincidence, meaning unknown. :-)
Here's the poem:
so
it
seems that
I’m moving
in perfect circles
I think I learn, yet I repeat
the same storylines
same mistakes
thinking
that
love
has power
and therefore
is predictable
there must be formulas for it
these laws of nature
please your man
nineteen ways
keep her
steps
rules
must
exist
we crave touch
so powerfully
the gravity of abdomens
naked and heaving
lust and love
are strong
must
be
rote
written
equations
the heart charting paths
predictable with complex math
the limits foreseen, but gravity wins, thirteen
sobbing down the graph
knees acute
again
still
trying
to compute
the impossible
because it seems so logical
we launch satellites
calculate
their flight
start
to
finish
but in love
we loft blood, hopes, hearts
and watch them burn like shooting stars
no navigation, just burning in terminal arcs
Cupid, we have got a problem
separate
eject
brace
again
one
again
shattered
should have known
the damn math was off
the equations are all awry
attraction has rules
if only
they are
found
mapped
understood
we could stop searching
for the meaning in our meetings
mayhap grasp our lines obtuse, make ‘em right, and fly
one problem
one tiny problem
more of a monkey wrench, really
you cannot calculate that which is irrational
things get fuzzy around the edges
you work around it
ignore it
but you can’t solve it
it gets quietly set aside
but I knew
something was missing
a certain needed energy
entropy, really
pure chaos
simple
just
let
go
harness
the power
of the infinite
and hold on
we are drawn to touch
by laws of nature
what you do with that
is not up to you
it is up to us
one and one
make two
and something
extra
infinite
so stop
breathe
in
out
accept
embrace it
just ride that chaos
that sends one and one together
out beyond anything numbers could ever predict
past the gravity of bared abdomens to a never never land of pure flight
ride right past that second star on the right
to boldly go where no one has ever gone before
together
the point
is that you do not know
you cannot know
the essence of what makes us tick
is unknown
bend it shape it twist it pull it
the best you can do is round it
and that
just traps you in circles
burning halos with angels
shattered at Vitruvian angles
predictable
capture fireflies
and you watch ‘em die
let em go and watch em fly
the point is that you do not know
you gotta believe
I do
believe in fairies
so spread your wings
think some happy thoughts
and ride wherever the light may lead you
My apartment was so infested with bedbugs that I was hallucinating. Apparently that's a side effect of the damn things. My roommate was never around, and accordingly gave so little of a shit that two months' worth of warning that I wanted to break the lease and peace meant he was surprised when that day finally came. He demanded I pay the penalties, and rather than end up tearing him limb-from-limb, or calmly debate the issue, I paid and left.
I wrecked my car in the middle of January, so I guess I don't have to worry about kissing bridge pylons anymore. The irony here is that I had been trying to write a poem combining love with mathematical terms since summertime, when I started writing "all's fair." The concept of combining love with military terms proved a much easier one to finish than one combining love with mathetmatical ones - go figure. In December, I received an out-of-the-blue email from my ex, with the link to a youtube video detailing the Fibonacci sequence in a Tool song. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wS7CZIJVxFY)
It was a great, seismic click within myself. I watched the video, and I allowed myself to smile, to remember (or realize) that there was something great, good, and powerful that kept that relationship running for so long. I also realized that to make this poem work, I would need to put myself under the constraint of writing the whole damn thing in a Fibonacci spiral. I spent winter break writing and deleting syllables and circles; two weeks after I crashed my car, I finished the poem.
I spent the afternoon standing on my front porch, practicing performing in my underwear as the sun set. I felt alive inside for the first time in weeks - months - or at least, in a way I hadn't felt alive in so long. I felt like I was "back," like I had found myself again, in some healthy way.
Life, of course, had other plans. It is always far more convoluted than you would think.
I went to Fair Trade that night, to find that it was Tombstone - the first of three tryouts to prove myself worthy of a slot in the Southwest Shoot-out. The Southwest Shoot-out determines the members of this year's nationals team at the National Poetry Slam in August. This was what I had heard about last year, and that I had wanted to be a part of; here was my dumb self showing up too late to sign up for the slam, and already reducing my chances to be on the team.
Then, the cough I had had for the last week developed into bronchitis, and as I kept trying to go to work, deepened into pneumonia. I've spent the last two weeks wheezing instead of breathing, coughing until I vomit (or shit myself), and unable to muster the energy to put together a new slam, or edit my older poems into three-minute versions.
Three doctor visits have got me tentatively back on my feet, and breathing almost normally again. I just spent the last two hours working on cutting old poems down, trying to get them lean, tight, and inside of three minutes. I'll put up the new slam versions as soon as I finish them - some are down to 3:10, others are further away.
But as I'm sitting here, feeling this energy again, I thought I'd put up "irrational numbers." Its incubation - from a poem about the faith needed where numbers fail, as a love/math counterpart to a love/war poem, to something boosted by an email from someone who has spawned no small amount of inspiration has been a long one. It seems to tie into the beautiful cosmic coincidence that occurred the day I wrecked Tiny Car that this poem went through that incubation - and especially, the initial idea - to develop into an upbeat poem.
I write few enough of those, and Michelle pointed out that it seemed like I was changing (for the better), and rebuilding myself. I don't know. I thought I was feeling better, and then microbes and viruses started skullfucking me with renewed vigor. I do like having this poem on my arm (metaphorically, to clarify for those who know my penchant for needles). And the cosmic coincidence? I crashed my car - which I dearly loved - and in the same hour, ran into a girl I loved, the one who was there when I bought the car. She offered me a ride home. We never got a beer - life is not *quite* that easy - but I made it home, laughed it off, and finished a poem that started in sadness with smiles. I'd written about killing myself in Tiny Car; now she's gone; and on the same day, I saw (and felt happy about seeing) a person who I hadn't seen in years.
Oh, fuck it. I can't put it all into some nice, neat timeline. I felt like there might be one there, but who knows. Point is, the poem feels beautiful. Around the same time, I had a beautiful coincidence, meaning unknown. :-)
Here's the poem:
so
it
seems that
I’m moving
in perfect circles
I think I learn, yet I repeat
the same storylines
same mistakes
thinking
that
love
has power
and therefore
is predictable
there must be formulas for it
these laws of nature
please your man
nineteen ways
keep her
steps
rules
must
exist
we crave touch
so powerfully
the gravity of abdomens
naked and heaving
lust and love
are strong
must
be
rote
written
equations
the heart charting paths
predictable with complex math
the limits foreseen, but gravity wins, thirteen
sobbing down the graph
knees acute
again
still
trying
to compute
the impossible
because it seems so logical
we launch satellites
calculate
their flight
start
to
finish
but in love
we loft blood, hopes, hearts
and watch them burn like shooting stars
no navigation, just burning in terminal arcs
Cupid, we have got a problem
separate
eject
brace
again
one
again
shattered
should have known
the damn math was off
the equations are all awry
attraction has rules
if only
they are
found
mapped
understood
we could stop searching
for the meaning in our meetings
mayhap grasp our lines obtuse, make ‘em right, and fly
one problem
one tiny problem
more of a monkey wrench, really
you cannot calculate that which is irrational
things get fuzzy around the edges
you work around it
ignore it
but you can’t solve it
it gets quietly set aside
but I knew
something was missing
a certain needed energy
entropy, really
pure chaos
simple
just
let
go
harness
the power
of the infinite
and hold on
we are drawn to touch
by laws of nature
what you do with that
is not up to you
it is up to us
one and one
make two
and something
extra
infinite
so stop
breathe
in
out
accept
embrace it
just ride that chaos
that sends one and one together
out beyond anything numbers could ever predict
past the gravity of bared abdomens to a never never land of pure flight
ride right past that second star on the right
to boldly go where no one has ever gone before
together
the point
is that you do not know
you cannot know
the essence of what makes us tick
is unknown
bend it shape it twist it pull it
the best you can do is round it
and that
just traps you in circles
burning halos with angels
shattered at Vitruvian angles
predictable
capture fireflies
and you watch ‘em die
let em go and watch em fly
the point is that you do not know
you gotta believe
I do
believe in fairies
so spread your wings
think some happy thoughts
and ride wherever the light may lead you
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