Ain't no art like COMPETITIVE art.

I feel like slams should have t-shirts and foam gloves.  Maybe even vuvuzelas.  Yeah, that's right, that was a World Cup joke.  I'm retro like that.

So I've decided to compete in the Beltway Poetry Slam this month. (Assuming, of course, I get there in time to sign up.  If I don't, I'll probably have the poet's equivalent of blue balls.)

This means I can't do any of the four poems I have memorized and prepared.  Which means I need two poems edited, memorized and ready to perform by Tuesday.  I've picked the two and essentially done the edits I wanted to do.  Now it's memorization and performance.  They're two different things, as I'm sure anyone who's done performance poetry knows.  Just reciting it in monotone isn't enough.  You have to have the right emphasis and movements and all that shit.  Kinda like your body is reciting it.

The first I'm planning on doing is going to be about how much I hate rhubarb pie.  The second is basically an adaptation for DC of a poem I wrote about the PATH in Jersey City.  I know that seems like cheating, but you'd be surprised how much all late-night public transit has in common.

Instead of posting the poems, here's a picture of a super cat.