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