I used to go to
these poetry slams in
Des Moines.
Little coffee shops of
academia.
They were competitive.
I won a few.
I was homeless and going
through a divorce, life
had me by the throat.
I wanted to win at
living.
That was going to
be a long shot.
The patrons applauded
after the poetry was read.
And after the cruelty of
The concrete, the applause
felt nice.
But mostly, it was the
pretty posey,
the cute and polished
cat **** that received
the prizes.
The stuff with no guts.
It felt like I was watching
goldfish in a bowl.
Eventually, I walked out
of the coffee shop circuit.
It didn’t prepare me at all for
my debut in the abandoned houses,
writing words on the walls of those
mad January nights.