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Writings from the Aspire Today was a kind of day that fools you. The sun felt so warm, but the wind was a springy cold. I sit in my car and write this. Listening to Alana Davis -- trying to figure out what my head and heart are discussing -- trying not to lie to myself, but not sure if I'm convincing. There are so many doubts surrounding everything. I know that's vague, but I really question everything. I question whether I'm meant to go slam in NYC when so many of my poems are contemplative, Erika and Chris's poems are so raw that they're almost too much. I agree with what Patricia Smith, Boston slammer, says here. Definitely read this. I'm so tame next to Erika and Chris, but I've been the one who wins. However, they make me feel like shit if they don't understand what I'm slamming/reading about. Oh, for a complete definition and history of the "art" of poetry slamming, An Incomplete History of Slam covers it. Poetry is my escape, but also my shrink who paints with her fingers and toes and hips and breasts. She listens to my silent wonderings when no one else will. I question whether the mini stars that revolve on this sheet of paper are really made from the diamond on my finger or whether the stars make up the diamond -- and my head is stella-bound thinking about a wedding. A lot of heart says that if you as a reader can't understand what I write, similar to Erika and Chris not understanding what I slam, use your brain. Why should I have to bring my readers and myself to such a ground level that it's shameful.
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Listening: Alana Davis "Blame It On Me" |
