Constance Stadler

The Slam

I. Lay that paper down, Girl.
  Tonight you need free arms,
  and that tee-Ease of a hip sway.
  You Celebrate Us. Proclaim our   We.
  Ass plant on our family tree.
  Smiles trickle and course on out
  hands are pushed together in rhythmic shout
  A young woman, a young poet
  sheds her chrysalis of doubt.
  Embraces her song.

II. Damn! you were percolatin'
  in perfect syncopation'
  and fine articulation
  of brutality.
  The room was ablaze in
  po-ly-syllabic haze
  we roared at
  your gaze
  on humanity.

III. Suited fine, with bandana-ed dreads
  The Eloquent Elephant filled the air
  with truths, that only Bed-Stuy can forge
  and a humble wise man utter.
  Oh yes, I, too know, have been carved up
  by that blindness in the Cit-eh.
  But in lyric affirmation of its human
  Degradation.
  You make war, you speak love, and

  You slam me, free.

Constance Stadler © 2009