That is what I love about living abroad--the ease with which you can start groups of likeminded folks in your community. This is a poem I read as the sacrifice for the evening's slam portion.
PS I do have a video of it, in which I:
a) forgot a crucial line.
b) compare myself to Aslan.
c) am a wee bit tipsy because I jokingly asked for tequila and seriously received three shots in a very short period of time--I did not OOTAH for the first two hours of the evening; I then found myself obnoxious and hydrated the rest of the evening.
d) was a little sassy when I said "professors." Please see number 3. I didn't mean it like that. I loved my university professors. They really have helped me be the human I am today.
You can comment/send me an email, and I can share the video with you on the google drive whoositwhatsit
Inside the Binary
I wasn’t born a writer.
I didn’t come from the womb sticky with
verbs or adjectives.
They didn’t check my response to
They didn’t wipe articles from my eyes.
My heart didn’t beat nouns
I didn’t have ten healthy
phrases and gerunds.
I didn’t inhale clauses
and exhale statements.
I did not cry eloquence
But with an inarticulate babble
There are those, however, who burst with
Those whose honeyed breath tastes like
their eyes, a metaphor of unspoken truths.
I am not that.
Instead, I became a writer.
I learned from
books and professors.
My commas spliced, my voice was passive.
I combined 0s and 1s to form
characters on a screen.
I scratched ink onto paper hoping to find
answers to unknown questions.
That’s what born writers do—
transcribe ideas in search of something
work outside of binaries to
Again, I am not that.
I fixate on word choice.
I need perfection.
I follow rules.
I operate language.
I plug words into their distinct niches of
subject, verb, object.
but real writing is messy punctuation is a suggestion line breaks are irrelevant writing cannot be perfected writing cannot be tamed the power words wield is greater than humanity will ever know
I wish that I could
create instead of manipulate.
Maybe someday I will learn
to feel, to breathe, to be
Until then, I’ll live in my textbook house made of
parentheses and ampersands.