Slammed & Split

Relationship Rivalry

With so much beef
cooking in the culture these days,
I was chewing the fat
and decided
that to advance my poetical career,
I'd need to take a rival.

I could tackle the top of millions
by trying to take down Saul Williams
but he'd scrawl metaphors on my soul
and leave them tattooed across my chest
just to prove his verbal heft,
mos def.

Plus,
who the Hell am I?

Now, as I continued down the line,
I realized my status and stature
severely limited my options:
I couldn't call out top cats
because they'd simply cast(e) the system
and send sounds of silence sliding down the scale.
And even against underbosses,
there's a chance that I might fail.
And then beefing with soliders,
well,
that only leaves you doing nake pyramids
with bunny ears behind you
as you grace the MySpace picture page
put up to remind you
for nightly newscasts to come.

Aaaanyway,
After much internal debate,
I decided I should date
a female poet of roughly equivalent state
with a ceiling so high,
broadcasters would recast
old terms with new light
as they described with no lie
why she —
and not me —
should be poetry's No. 1 pick.

Assuming no Darko,
we'd go One and Two,
each with our own particular burden of proof:
either living up to top billing
or surpassing the slight
that comes from someone
not thinking you're right.

From there,
we'd battle in close competition,
retaining the identities
that drove us on this mission,
splitting the vision
though we'd be bound to pump poems
full of erotic images,
grimacing at every extended metaphor
that betters one the other invented before
in a game of "Can You Top This?"
audiences can't ignore.

And if I ever sensed they were starting to snore,
I'd pick fights at home
and bring them to the floor
of the closest competitve slam
to see what's in store
when an independent panel
throws up five scores
and I can go:
"Ha!
My position's 1.6 points better than yours!"
or
"Fuck!
These judges are whores —
what are they doing giving me fours,
but repeatedly beating me into the floors?"

Of course,
the makeup poems
would be fantastic.
Spastic, elastic
accurate recaps
of actual happenings
that are active gymnastic
written reactions
so lyrically def
they require closed captions.

But anything that creatively compelling
is bound to boil with bitterness
at steamed shots
and mischievous actions.

And even a heart pumped full of pride
can't pass enough life down the line
when malicious words
clog arteries like trans fats
and the inevitable consequence
is a heart attack on the soul,
one that scars so deeply
lifestyles have to change
for fear of relapse.
Though,
for a while,
subject matter won't matter
because only one subject
will matter.

Eventually an elegy
will readily appear
to honor,
to mourn
all that was once here.
An epic masterpiece,
theater for the dearly departed
relationship rivalry
we let get started.

And I'd finally move past
producing poems from spite,
refinding the voice
that always existed inside,
discovering other ways
to become inspired,
though I'd never get tired
of revisiting the time
when my poetry peaked
because I found a chef
willing to cook up a beef.

Applications
are available at present.
Admissions
are always rolling.
And all you have to do
is ask.