The Grand Slam

It rained slightly as we stood cued up and waiting for the doors of Chop Suey to open. I'd never been there before. We were obnoxiously early as is my habit and the slam began obnoxiously late, as is its nature. The top 8 competing poets were Tara Harding (finalist in the Women of the World Slam), Micky, Karen Phinneyfrock (sp?)-(the wild card), Danny Sherrard (national poetry slam winner), Angela Dy, Wombly, Matt Gaino, and Greg B - (the other wild card). I had seen each of them before except for Micky, so I knew it would be a good show. First there were a few performances by several other top poets who didn't quite make it for one reason or another: Amber Flame, Ella, Ryler Dustin, and Anis whose last name I forget. Then the feature, Rachel, whose last name I forget. (I may not remember their whole names, but I remember their poems.)

Chop Suey is poorly ventilated, a red and black painted hot box with a sticky floor and a long golden dragon suspended from the ceiling...in short, very uncomfortable, but trendy and kind of fun. At times I had flashbacks of summer in Wisconsin. It was oppressively humid, but there was still a kind of buzz from the nervous energy, and good creative vibes. I was accompanied by Mz. Blu, my poetry companion for most of this season. She is a die hard ride to the slam, a finicky critic easily bored and less easily amused. She believes in poems that make sense and hates any mention of unicorns. She also writes and sometimes slams, but mostly reads in the open mike and supports me while I slam and lose and slam again and lose again...sometimes winning the crowd or feeling like I won because I did myself and my poems justice, but in points losing. She is the one that reminds me that there is more than one way to win. The slam is such a weird obsession for which I have no legitimate explanation other than that it combines two major parts of my nature, my need to express myself creatively and my irrational need to be the best at something.

So there I was in the audience as Roberto Ascalon announced the slammers. "Take a look. These are the top poets in Seattle," he said and I was overwhelmed with a deep desire to be on that stage...to be the best. So the analytical part of me kicked in and I watched each performance carefully looking for commonalities and differences. What makes a champion? What makes someone the best? Is it Danny Sherrards ability to cram way too many words into one phrase before being forced to take that sharp intake of breath, or Tara Harding's frantic gesticulating and liberal use of swear words? Or is it just that cadence, that flow of one word to the next in a unique sequence that evokes an image or a feeling, makes a statement, asks a question or just moves you? I am intrigued...and was pretty stoked to see some amazing poetry. There were two dirty rounds and then a final 3. My favorites, as usual didn't quite match the judges. Angela Dy rocked my world on poem 2 especially....also I thought Tara Harding was poorly scored considering her performance.

In the end Matt Gaino took first followed by Wombly and Danny Sherrard. The three of them are joined by Karen Phinneyfrock-who was fabulous (Oh Canada...) to form Seattle's 2008 slam team. I wish them luck.