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San Jo' Slam Feature Recap Comin' Atcha!
Last night was the most fun I've had on a stage in ages! Of course, it seems to always be that when I'm dreading a show for one reason or the next, it steps up and proves to be an incredible experience and I'm glad for having pushed through, after all. I mean, I really wanted to be up for the slam feature in San Jose, I just felt horribly ill and after meeting up with Roy for coffee, spent most of the daytime alternating between sleep and a zombie-like state, splayed out on the futon, unable to do much but breathe and zone.
So, what is a gal to do but put on a dress that channels '70s icons and gear up to fake it 'till she makes it? Exactly what I did. The train ride to meet up with Baraka and Dusty Rose in the Mission for our trek to San Jose was painful. My head heavy and nodding out, I was still in "oh no" mode. However, getting in a car with this duo, plus two, Dre, a young poet and hip hop mc, and Tinkerbell, a newly sobered up badass poet, there is no possible way for a spirit to stay low. Baraka , foot heavy on the clutch, led us in a stop-n-start ride through the Mission to the high way, Dusty feeding him a sandwich at stop signs. His third time driving stick and we all laughed, whilst our heads bobbed back and forth, clapping when he didn't stall out. The car ride is full of excitement. I haven't been around poets that have this much fervor for the artform in a long time. Dre proclaims boldly that everyone in the car would be taking the top three slots in the slam (Caitlin not included 'cuz she's featuring!) and I grin, filled with their energy. About an hour later and we're in San Jose (or San Ho, as the locals affectionately refer to the area), the venue marked by a smattering of smoking poets, one characteristically pacing back and forth mumbling over a sheet of paper, reviewing a poem. Home!
The welcome was large for the small venue, filled with about fifty people, a black box stage in the middle of the room, an art gallery off to the side. A great space with beautiful acoustics, and purportedly much better than the old bar they used to inhabit, where I'd heard rumors of features competing with mullet-ed drunken hockey fans for airspace (and usually losing.) I'm offered a bit of Cali's finest medicinal herb and am feeling cooled out and present in the moment, despite the tiredness and aches. Easing in. The slam is a mix of interesting characters, including two middle aged men competing, which is a rare and welcome sight for sore poetic eyes. As all venues in this great world, most of the poetry was lack luster and unexciting. However. Apparently, unbeknown to me (though I had a feeling), I'd arrived with the cool crew. The four poets ripped through the slam, setting the stage and the audience on fire! Dusty Rose and Baraka teamed up to double-time it as their duo "Mumbles & the Dust" (how great is that name?), which poems about polyamory and love. Beautiful lines. My favorite off the dome, "with the permanence of the pyramids." Whoosh. Dre gets up like its church and Tink delivers some hardcore confessional-type words that get right at my heart strings. They remind me why I fell in love with performance poetry in the first place. Inserted with the fresh energy of my first step on the Nuyo's Wednesday stage. I am so thankful for this. Oh, and the four poets (B&D counting as one), of course, true to word, take the top three slots.
Before going on stage Baraka and Dusty give me a four-handed back massage that puts me in heaven and I feel like Mike Tyson being amped up to win a fight. I pretend to throw off the robe and throw a few jabs at the air in mock-preparation. I'm ready. There hasn't been a show that's gotten me this hyped to deliver in a long time. I want my new poet-friends to be moved, to feel inspired, to get a little bit back of what they've given me. And the rest is history. Dear readers, when I stepped on that stage a fire came out of me like I've never burned before. I read mostly old work, which felt new it'd become so foreign and it barreled off my tongue like fireworks. The audience was beautifully receptive and captivated, quiet as a mouse and all crowded together when I took a photo of them mid-set from thr stage. I left a good amount of Caitlin poems in various pockets and purses and exchanged pictures and love with a whole slew of lovely folks. Extra big ups to Kat and Chris and the DJ who's name I've forgotten like an asshole. I know it's my job as a writer to translate these experiences, but somethings are too magical and are simply untranslatable.
The SF crew and I roll to get one of the best burritos I've ever eaten in my life before departing for home. They try to convince me to a sleep-over but I kindly decline and the car ride is spent singing songs aloud like a bizarre family unit, Tink's leg draped over Dre's, Dre's hand on my knee. Have you ever hung with modern hippies like us? Dre asks and I laugh. Perhaps they are modern day hippies, in a De La Soul, Three Feet High and Rising kind of way, but I'd have never tagged them that, just expansive-spirited folk. Because I didn't get to close my set with the prayer, they ask me to read it in the car. Their hum vibrates in my bones. The energy shifts and opens a space for another piece. This time, I read them Yusef Komunyakaa's "To the Performance Poets..." You're gonna flip, I warn them, and spout the poem off like rockets. Yep. They flipped. Tink asks me to read it to them again. I would have read it 1,000 times over, should they have requested. Instead, we talk of Oakland Hills, a sack of greenery and poems to round robin. Salty lips and thick juicy hugs, I am buzzing so fast sleep is futile. I write a bit before hitting the pillow dreaming to blow off the steam.
I am in love with them all. Thanks, beautiful people, you've made my trip something to write home about.
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