Someone killed spoken word poetry this morning.
While climbing through Nikki Giovanni’s dining room window.
Where Saul stood guard;
feeling robbed too.
Tripped over Amiri’s books and broke the pseudo jazz hip hop cadence
and stumbled; choking out it’s real voice
Sounding like bad excuses and good grammar
It was eeking out the pains of Ntozake Shange
so busy trying to find it’s womanhood…
…negating the obvious.
Looking for it’s glasses while wearing it’s glasses.
Diving deep in the ocean of words and emotions..
…trying to find oxygen.
What a gyp.
In action on intersection of Haight and Ashbury (San Francisco)