SLAM!

A friend of mine is playing a "show" this evening at, of all places, Starbucks. Just him and his guitar, a couple of covers and a couple of original pieces that he still has to finish writing. To ease his nerves, I told him I'd be his opening act and do a little slam poetry before he went on. (What a funny guy I am.) I don't really know the first thing about slam poetry. Any attempt I might make to perform a work(?) of slam poetry would probably fairly be categorized as offensive and mocking. I won't actually do it. But let's see what I can come up with.

[Postscript: it just took me about an hour to complete this novel little experiment, but I've kept the revisions to an absolute minimum. Brace yourselves. You're in for a treat, if I do say so myself.]

SLAM!
Crash! Crash!
Brokeback Mountain
Drinking fountain
Sinking, counting
The days til I'm starting
I'm off to a good start
If only I could start,
I might get going
Going, going places
I've got friends in high places
Future lawyers and doctors
I'm living at home, with no job and no prospects
No job, but not broke. I'm no rich kid
I just got some cash I saved up
Trying to get my mind made up
Playing some blackjack
Give my mom a heart attack
Spending the money I stole from the red man
Is 'red man' offensive?
Now don't get defensive.
Say what you will, just sit there attentive.
I spend all day writing
I'm a writer, a blogger
I'd probably be better off if I were a jogger (OUCH!)
You look in my eyes and you see what I'm missing
You hear in my voice a meek hesitation
I'm sitting, I'm thinking
I'd rather be doing
Instead of my thoughts and emotions construing
But I've got what I've got
I'm still stuck with my lot
Until I roll those dice and go home with the pot
Pot of gold
Into the fold
Get me out there, outside, out into the cold
I'll take it, I'll shiver
I'll freeze and I'll quiver
It's got to be better than this
At least for my liver (OH!)
Drunk on a Monday
Sounds like a fun day
Come home and someday I'll tell the whole story
It's gory
For sure-y
Get ready,
It's heady
Stop whining
Start shining
I write emails and don't send them
I get flesh wounds, try to mend them
I meet people and forget them
Or they forget me
Which is sadder?
It doesn't matter
Enough of this chatter
I imagine a life that I'll have in the future
All that I want is to try to suit your
Expectations. Whose are they
Though really?
They're mine
But listen, I whine
Where the hell is my spine?
Someone give me a sign
It's high time
That this rhyme
Was finished
Diminished
Shelved for the ages
Leaf through the pages
Five years, ten years from now
If God will allow
I'll be taking my bow
And looking back at how
This soft little kid
How he hid
What he did
What he didn't do
What he could have done
How he could have won
Could have been a son
To be proud of
How'd it have
Looked to myself
Ten years old, twelve
How will it look
To myself
Thirty years, older,
Getting colder, hopefully bolder
Not fitting the mold, or
The plan, or the norm
Weather this storm
Time to get born
Enough with forlorn
Fears, tears, doubts
All. Now. Shorn.