taxes

Here's another poem I started months ago. I'd been sewing pieces and rhythms together for forever; I finished a functional draft during Friday professional development. The presenter actually called me out - "...and [blank]'s just working on his taxes poem!"

This is my final, non-slam version, I think - which is silly, because I think forcing myself to cut these pieces to three minutes has only made them better by far.

This thing clocks in at 3:20, 3:30, I think - I opened with it at the March qualifier, and they didn't say anything about time constraints - but I haven't decided where to get line chopping. Input appreciated on things that may fall dead.


taxes
taxes are the price we pay for organized society
for our police and firefighters
for our schools and soldiers
for our prisons and fences
let me spell it out for you
there is no u or s in we
when we must cinch our belts
U.S. us is a foreign idea
one suited for fascists and Swedes
when we must cough up taxes
when we must pay for organized society
we has a silent e
it's not we, but wee, the little people
the U.S. of us cannot possibly handle
the back breaking burden
of Boomers blossoming beyond retirement
see, these higher numbers of tired elderly
made dire this situation, social security's on the fire
it's gotta go
we can not cover unemployment
we can not get you health insurance
we need to pay up for the bullets and bombs
to bailout the banks and grant the Party ranks
tax deductions for training us at burger flipping
paper pushing to pretend like we got some meaning
I think you and I are worth way more
than cigarettes and sad-ass sixpacks to cope with
sick days with no pay and shit jobs with low wages
all this shit makes sense if you just buy the logic, but
I'm too broke to afford these trickle-down economics
if whatever goes up must come down
I wouldn't still be sitting here on the ground
with my tongue out and a bad case of cotton mouth
there's no us here, not in this U.S., not today
not when we pay our taxes
it's just little ol' wee paying for organized society
no taxation without representation, huh?
ain't no tattooed broke ass smokers on Capitol Hill
nobody with bike locks and bus passes in they pockets
nobody there looks like me or you
you wonder why we want better minimum wage
but we're still waitin'
we're looking for healthcare and pensions
but we're still waitin;
we're looking for a break
and wee with this little silent e
we're still waitin
while watchin banks blow our life savings
and get billion dollar bailouts
but I should stop hating
because I'm not gonna do shit
and neither are you
we used to die for what we believed in
we used to die
for the right to speak our minds
for the chance to decide for ourselves
for the simple respect represented
by no taxation without representation
now we're only willing to die for our dreams
if the respawn time is under ten seconds
we hate these taxes and plenty other economic facts
but we're not going to die to fight these things
we're sycophants for the new world kings
what percent of mankind
in the last five hundred years
has had the utter privilege
of complaining about the water pressure?
Servants with copper water buckets
heated over roaring fires
could get ancient emperors a steam bath
I spend ten minutes scratching my ass in the shower
and 600 gallons get pissed down the drain
I drank orange juice this morning
most the world still lives and dies
on less than a dollar a day
I spent a buck thirty nine at Circle K
to get fresh squeezed OJ
from groves thousands of miles away
it was delicious.
It used to take an army and a fleet of ships
to provide the luxury of fresh fruit year-round
it still does
we just don't get to command em personally
we are merely expected to pay the fucking bills
the maintenance costs on sniper scope rifles
filling the gas tank on supersonic aircraft
room and board for the people
who will not get with the program
they keep interrupting our nice neat organized society
it's better to die on your feet than live on your knees
no one ever said that
who had a full refrigerator
I like Lennon, but we are not all going to be happy
most of us are going to be hungry
not us, or we, or wee
we're lucky enough to think all you need is love
and to hate paying our taxes
the price of organized society

happy fucking tax day

contaminated

This is not finalized; it's longer than three minutes. But after a couple months, it's got a finished draft. I slammed it at the March qualifier - low score: 9.9.


I could fuck your brains out – if I don't blow mine out first
the saddest thing about it I don't know which is worse

I've made enough mistakes that I'm finally gotten clarity
and I want to be clear, you, you should be scared of me
I used to be a fat kid, low self-esteem, and it shows
now I put in work so I know you'll like what I got in these clothes
and I swear, I'm burnin' inside, so I ride red lined, ready to explode
if you're ready to go, I will touch the bottom and curl your toes,
and show you things you did not know you didn't know
see, if I'm focused and stroking, I don't feel broken
I feel whole if I can leave your body lying smokin
we can can get dirty, nasty, raw, just spanking and choking
or we can keep it clean and sweet but its still just mean
because I am in some way shape or form contaminated
I have alienated every single girl I have ever dated
I can call em up but they just never seem to be home
it's always “please leave a message after the tone”
-look, I'm not calling stalking I don't care who you're screwing
I just, want to talk – I want to see how you're doing
I don't understand caring about each other so much
and somehow now we don't even keep in touch
but I get it, I know why you're gone, and don't talk back
I'm filled with filth, I spread poison, and that is a fact

so I could fuck your brains out, or just kill myself
both of these choices seem as good as anything else

I've got this evil toxic pollutin confusion, similar to when
usin slides inside and turns into abusin, because by then
you're drowning in poison that's drip drop pooling in my mind
I can't swim and there's nicotine chimes keeping tar and oil time
to the crackling of all the black oil fires and funeral pyres
my gray matter is stinking toxic nauseous burning tires
so inside I am obscene, all festering sores and gangrene
marijuana masochism and meditation are just smokescreens
to hide the dark I carry locked up inside, and I spread it
I think it's under control, but I let it out and infected
everyone I care about, like my presence is an injection
of misery and madness that sends everyone running, I get it
my temples are pounding with the sound of all the people
I care about thinking it's better when I'm not around
I didn't mean to burn bridges with my old flames, it's proof
of the truth – that I'm a dirty martini with no vermouth
missing something basic – it's obvious when I face it
I don't trust, I'm not happy, and I can't fake it
so I'm a human fucking infection, and I can't take it


sure, I could fuck your brains out, but I should blow mine out first
and I'm so sick of myself that I don't even know which is worse

I stand up here pretending that I'm some kind of poet
but I'm just a freak of nature fuck up, and I know it
the poisons in my own brain are driving me insane
they make me into a crazed spider trapped in chains
so again and again, I spread love and spit venom
into anyone who lets me past their protective denim
I'll pull you in with my style, and drive you wild
but you better run like hell from the cracks in my smile
I'm not ready for love, I'm matches to a gasoline kiss
and I gotta go before I explode, because something's gotta give
I can't keep all this bullshit bottled up inside myself
but I don't want to spread this shit to anybody else
and I only feel right when you come so hard you're beside yourself
so let's pick a third path, and try a little something else

I won't kill myself, or fuck your brains out if you let me know
you're loving the fucking you're getting from my mouth

February Tombstone Qualifier

It's been awhile!
April 29th is the Southwest Shoot-out - top four poets from the shoot-out are in the nationals competition in Boston, in August.

Getting to the shoot-out meant either taking one of the top two spots in a qualifying slam - there were three, January, February, and March - or having a high enough cumulative point total from those slams that you rank in the top 10 (which automatically includes winners from those slams).

I was sick in January. February, I took first. After a bull session with friends at BFG, the best advice came from t-hawk: "Come out strong, show 'em a sensitive side in the middle to show your range, and then shove it down their fucking throats."

Sound advice.
I slammed "Amazing at football," toned it back with "irrational numbers," and finished with tears, screaming, losing my hat, and "countdown."

Hehehehe.

Slam - the final countdown

The sub 3-minute version of the final countdown.

a reading from the verses of the totally fucked
once more into the breach
one more day, and we will be released
we, we lie a lot
we have to
together, two by two
with red eyes like taillights
blown corneas, swollen veins
driver's eyes alike
streaming everywhere you don't want to be
twice, Visa, two signatures
a white towel and a titty fuck
in a bar outside the airport
three numbers on the back
that security feature
never prevents you
from taking last call
and pounding it unconscious
sixteen ounces at a time
four hours later, four lanes wide
red lights flying two at a time
all staring backward and bleary
glaring, hungover, hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o'clock roll call
snap to attention
time to go everywhere you don't want to be
five fingers gripping the wheel
wrapped around a glass
do you drink and drive?
do you really live and thrive?
is this what we live for
to barely survive until we die
I'm confused. I keep paying dues
but the world stays cast in stone gray hues
except for the red eyes, streaming, two by two
six feet tall
green throwback, shoulder holster
scribblin' deathbed thoughts at the Big Fat Greek
irony – I almost met my end in the street
zero difference
six hours later
seventy-fifth at seven AM
the HOVA lane officially exists
but it's so early no one's at the party
even God slept on the seventh
I'm still streaming straight coffee when I piss
eight beats in a bar
count 'em
count 'em to keep yourself steady
at eight when you're already topped off
already been home stepped out to step off
I pretend I don't need 'em
just chug 'em and breathe 'em
nine exits
gotta hustle, gotta go
don't feel great, can't be late
hate feeling this way
hate that I don't even feel alone
maybe this is what it's like to be grown
miserable red taillights, drivers' eyes alike
glaring staring hating hearing
the clock toll in the morning
five o clock fuck it all roll call
you're everywhere you never wanted to be --
good things come to those who wait,
but I have never been a patient person.
Let my Toyota's tiny ten-inch speakers
bump this final countdown
nine thousand more yards
I can already see the bridge pylon
eight legs, spiders on my windshield
there's sanity in their slime
seven levels of hell
the darkest part of depression
the deepest secret of the bells
don't ask, don't tell
six sibling's I'll fail
all angels I hailed in dreams
so I could tell them tall tales
five thousand miles, for six month spells
round trip
is more than Scheherazade could fill
I slipped, I need, I miss
my baby sister's kiss
never put a razor to my wrist
but there's a beauty burning in this
four cylinders in my car, all aching
four chambers in my heart, all breaking
three seconds to impact
this is understanding in a car crash
too exhausted to ask why
two hands on the wheel
turn to the side, and do it right
everybody will know
just one, all alone
it's my time - I’m sick of driving in the lines

Slam - Amazing at Football

Slam rules require a piece to be 3 minutes or less; there's a ten second grace period, and then points start coming off. "Amazing at Football" was one of the pieces to get some razorblade shaving.

There's a kid
who carves swastikas
into his eyelids
and his cheeks
he's pretty creepy
but I can talk to him about you
he understands
all the things I want
to do to you
not really, I suppose
neither of us do
we're both in 4th grade
we don't really know what it means
to tie someone up
out in the woods
cut them a thousand times
add salt and vinegar
and let them lie there
for a few weeks
we talk about it
I, I dream about it
it's monstrous
but for you
it's more than you deserve
my mother doesn't scream
not when you put her 
through the shower door
not when you wrap your hands
around her throat
not when you're stringing nooses
in the backyard
there's thuds and grunts
but she only screams
when you come after us
my sisters are not sluts
my brother and I are not pieces of shit
you could've worked for Pinochet
you know every spot on the body that hurts
from the web of the ears
to the nerves in the armpit
they cry, they scream
so Mom screams
I don't
not anymore
I don't scream
I don't cry
thanks to you
I do not feel pan
I'm aware it exists
but I can turn it off
like a switch
I will say this
it makes me amazing at football
and glad I'm the oldest
that I'm big, that I'm a boy
it means I piss you off the most
it means I can take the heat
off the others
I can handle the fists
and the belt 
and the boots
it means I can endure
it means I'm gonna be awesome at football
but 
it doesn't mean I'm strong enough
to stand up to you
to feed you a steak knife 
while you sleep
to Mark McGwire a cast-iron skillet
at your temple
while you're busy
with someone else's neck
to end you and our suffering
I'm sick of it
sick of the question
"what does your father do?"
and making up some new story
so sick of hearing
"he's such a great father"
and biting back the truth
so sick of the salt
In tears and blood
the flavors of my home sweet home
so sick of being terrified
there's blood on the walls
when I call the house 
and no one picks up the phone
I'm sick of making more money than you
I'm in high school
it's not my job
to put food on the table
I'm sick of all this
and it makes me fucking amazing at football
because I run on rage
I channel fire and hell
run raw fuck you all across 100 yards
and it scares the fuck out of me
because I look like you
I sound like you
and my biggest fear
is that I am you
that this fire
is yours
I know you were amazing at football
I grew up watching where that goes
I can take and toss girls
like the Band-Aids they're not
it's so much easier to break someone else
than to fix yourself
I know you were amazing at football
but my model for life is everything you are not
my to-do list is everything you were too afraid to try
there's a water to quench this rage
wine and work, ink on skin and page
I don't need this fire
fuck being amazing at football
I'd rather be a man