During my brief foray at Heart's, I did manage to do a little bit of writing. This summer, I hope to buckle down and start a portfolio of poem poems, and wean myself away from my slam-inspired voice. Amazingly, my non-slam voice and pieces scored much better than my slam oeuvre, so I'm going to start cultivating some work in that style, and become more of a 'read' poet than a 'heard' poet. Here's a rough draft of a poem I wrote while rereading my favorite book, Martin Bauman (or, A Sure Thing). I think I still have to bring out the subtext, but I think you'll get the idea.
I always made it a point to go to him
even though he was a little out of my way
with a smile usually reserved for sundaes or snow days
the only thing keeping me down was my backpack
he had a habit of biting his lower lip
as he glanced between his bangs both ways
suckling from his red flesh
deepened by the coughdrops he consumed
in the way a dancer always walks with grace
or a percussionist never stops tapping
he twisted his wrist as he held the sign
rap-tapping against his khakied thighs
as he was wont to do
back to the front back to the front
his lack of small talk always left me flustered
(a tendency which I wish I had grown out of,
like my fondness for hotdogs or my aversion to greenbeans)
sometimes all it took was an eyeshift
and he would walk out past the curb
his bright orange shocking agains the asphalt
with a simple hand gesture and head movement
he sent me on my way
even now I wait for the cock of the head
and cross only when I'm told.
