Sunday, 13 September 2015

Peanut Butter Unchained


           

            About three days ago I started a download of a collection of 26 films of Buster Keaton, including some of his early work in Fatty Arbuckle movies. On Saturday morning, when I got up, the download had completed. I’m also downloading a 163 gigabyte file from a Spanish speaking uploader who claims it’s a complete Keaton collection. That will take at least two months to download, but probably quite a bit more. It has been said that Buster Keaton was one of the great filmmakers of all time, but I don’t think I’ve actually sat down to look at anything he did all the way through. I’ve still got a bunch of Bonanza episodes to finish watching, so it’ll be a few weeks before I get around to Keaton.
            On Saturday morning I was eating some peanut butter on toast, but I was doing some writing at the same time. I went to pick up a piece of toast but caught it too much on the edge and it flipped over when I lifted it so it landed upside down on the back of my hand where all the peanut butter came off. That would have been embarrassing for me if anyone saw it so I’m glad no one knows it happened.
            The day kind of slipped by without my getting much done, probably mostly because the internet was so slow.
            I had planned on taking my guitar out to the Yellow Door Café and Open Stage at 6 St Joseph, but thee was an 80% chance of rain, and on top of that, this was my last free weekend before I start classes. Sunday would be occupied with Paul Valliere’s open stage in the park, and on Monday the exterminator is supposed to finally come, in which case I would need to leave home for four hours. So Saturday was my only chance for a free day at home. I would have taken a bike ride but since I anticipated rain I didn’t bother. It did rain a bit starting about the time I would have been heading up to Yonge and Manor, so I think I made a wise choice. Later on my decision to not go to the Yellow Door was justified, because there was a downpour that would have soaked my guitar and me at least on the way home.
            That night I finished my translation of Boris Vian’s “Un Coeur D’or”. So in the whole summer I did two story translations, wrote a story based on one of my mother’s childhood memories, translated a few songs, learned how to play a few more of my own songs, explored the city, wrote my journal, go in some guitar practice in front of small audiences (though I don’t know if that did any good). I had hoped to be done with the bedbugs before the end of the summer but that didn’t happen.
            I got an email letting me know that I’m off the waiting list for the short story course that starts in January. So now I’m enrolled in all the courses I wanted for this year, but I still haven’t gotten word as to whether I’m getting my grant or not. I probably am, but it’s always a relief when I get the official documentation.

Saturday, 12 September 2015

Through Friday Night Traffic and Home to Grilled Trout


           

            I had another empty yoga class on Friday. I think that if it continues like this for another week or so, I should let the volunteer coordinator at PARC know. I could just as easily stay home on Fridays and get stuff of my own done, rather than to go and rearrange chairs and sweep the floor of a room where I’m serving no purpose. They have a janitor there already.
            It seems to often look like rain looking south through my window at the sky over the lake, but when I ride north, rain doesn’t look as likely. Friday evening traffic seems to have more vehicles stopping where they shouldn’t and causing to have to venture on my bike out into centre lanes to merge with faster traffic in order to get past the obnoxious obstruction.
            It’s definitely getting darker earlier and I find I have to put my front and back flashers on sooner and sooner during the return trip from my bike rides.
            That night I grilled one of the rainbow trout fillets that I’d gotten from the food bank. It was delicious.

Friday, 11 September 2015

They Can Test My Pee But They'll Never Tame It


           

            Early Thursday afternoon I kept my appointment with my doctor. When the nurse called me in, she asked me to confirm that the doctor had wanted me to come in for a follow-up on my lab tests. I told her I assume that I’d won some sort of prize for being the lab’s millionth blood test and that I’d probably get free shopping at Honest Ed’s starting in January of 2017.
            I had to wait quite a while for Dr Shechtman to finally come in. He asked how I was and I said, “I assume you are about to tell me that.” It was of course something to do with my lab tests a few weeks before. I asked if it was my cholesterol like it had been about ten years before, but he said, “No, your cholesterol is pretty good … and your blood pressure is excellent!” He said that it’s something of minor concern that we should monitor. He said that my kidney function is of minor concern. I think he said my GFR levels are slightly below normal and my creatinine clearance levels are within the normal range but they have jumped enough for us to want to take another look at them. He said it could be a lab glitch or it could be that I was just dehydrated on the day of the last lab test. He said he wouldn’t be surprised at all if the next test shows no problem. He told me that if I don’t hear from him within two weeks there’s no problem.
            I went to the lab and while the technician was taking my blood, she told me I’d have to give a urine sample too. I said, “Okay, I have to go anyway.” She said, “That’s good!” I went to the washroom and started peeing until I realized that I was urinating in the toilet. I stopped and emptied the rest of my bladder into the cup, but I’d only filled one quarter. I was embarrassed because I’d already talked about having to pee and for some reason I was worried that when the technician saw a quarter of a cup after my saying that I had to go that she would think there was something wrong. I stood there and tried to call up a few more drips from the depths, but after two tries I only managed a couple of little splashes each time. On top of that, while I was trying so hard to pee, I spilled some of what I already had in the cup. I didn’t know how much piss was really necessary for a sample. It could be that even less was needed than what I gave. One thing I noticed was that my urine was almost clear this time around compared to the full cup of almost orange pee that I left with the lab a month before.
            When I left Bloor Medical, I was unlocking my bike when a very large and muscular young woman with blonde dreadlocks, came riding hard and fast on a bicycle, heading south on Bathurst. Her arms and legs were bursting with tattoos. As she passed I found her strangely alluring.
            I headed north on Bathurst, but from Davenport to St Clair the traffic was either jammed or crawling. I quite often had to get off my bike to get around and ahead of cars that were stuck too close to the curb. In fits of walking and riding, I probably walked half the way up to St Clair. Once I turned east the way was open and smooth and a great relief like suddenly peeing after not being able to. Around Avenue Rd though there was more construction ahead and so I once again had to get off and walk from time to time.
            I stopped to take some photos of a nice art deco apartment building about halfway between Avenue Rd and Yonge Street.
            I rode up to Millwood and then across to Mt Pleasant and south again. On Yonge, south of Bloor, I took a few photos of interesting old storefronts. I also stopped south of College to take some photos of the beautiful art deco designs on the outside of the College Park building.
            That night I watched another complicated episode of Bonanza. The middle of the second season has some pretty good stories. This one involved Little Joe hanging around the telegraph office when his friend, the operator was out getting something to show him. A telegram came in from the main branch of a bank in San Francisco, saying they were going to close the Virginia City branch. Joe pocketed the message because he thought there was something fishy, considering that so many miners had money in that bank. He went to the bank and found out that most of the money was in bonds and so the miners would lose it all if the bank closed because there wasn’t enough cash to cover the $100,000 in bonds. It turned out that this was all a plot on the part of the owner of the bank to foreclose on a rich silver mine in the Comstock. The owner was shown as a very old and very mean man in a wheelchair who said at the beginning of the episode, “Our civilization was founded on negotiation! Force them to negotiate!”
            Joe decided that the only way he could save the money that belonged to all the miners was to rob the Virginia City branch of all the bonds, then take them to larger branch two days away where they would be able to cash the bonds. Then he would bring the cash back and give it to the miners. He got Hoss involved in this scheme as an accomplice. They cut down a telegraph pole on the way to prevent the town from being warned that they were coming.
            Meanwhile, the two managers of the Virginia City branch decided to rob their own bank and they also robbed Joe and Hoss after they’d cashed the bonds. Joe and Hoss though eventually get the money back.
            One interesting thing about this episode was that the music was not the usual old west style orchestrations that one usually hears on Bonanza, but it was closer to rock and roll sometimes and other times like Dragnet. Maybe that can be explained by the fact that the episode was directed by Robert Altman.

Thursday, 10 September 2015

Vaporous Drapery


           

            On Wednesday morning, my cat Daffodil wasn’t waiting outside in the hall when I opened the apartment door. I figured though that I wouldn’t let myself start worrying too much about her until she’d been gone for twenty-four hours.
            I headed down to the food bank on a day that was the closest to being rainy of any Wednesday since April. So far, I haven’t had to line up in the rain. When I got there and locked my bike to a tree beside the building next door there was no line-up at all. I got number twenty and went home.
            At some point around midday there was a garbage truck coming down O’Hara and turning on Queen. I don’t know what it picked up, but long after it passed the pukey smell of whatever it was carrying had infected the neighbourhood.
            My phone had been off on Tuesday, but I’d noticed too late to call back that there’d been a call from my doctor’s office. I called Dr Shechtman’s office back on Wednesday but the receptionist couldn’t find any record of me having been called, which was a relief because he wouldn’t have called unless there was a problem with the lab tests from my most recent check-up.
            The heat wave was definitely over but it wasn’t an unpleasant sunny, cloudy day as I rode back to the food bank. As I was locking my bike, a woman stopped, leaned down and asked me the time. I told her it was 13:28.
            Such a wide assortment of people go to the food bank. I think that pretty much every one of the major world ethnicities were represented there that day, as well as most of the reasons for being poor enough to have to go there, whether that be because of age, race, addiction, identity, various types of physical and mental disability, or even philosophical reasons. It’s interesting how poverty brings people together.
            There was a very skinny elderly woman staggering as she walked in jeans, a stylish gold painted straw hat and white slingback sandals. She was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that revealed a skin condition so extreme that it could be mistaken for a fabric pattern.
            Another elderly but larger woman with the sunburn-like alcohol flush reaction that some drinkers get was smoking and laughing over by the fire escape.
            There was a middle-aged guy with a shaved head wearing spandex bicycle shorts. Actually, for his age, he wore them pretty well.
            The woman who likes to dance to her smart phone was talking to a couple of people. One of them talked about cooling off with a snowball fight and her response was that there aren’t enough testicles to go around.
            The woman at the door called out number sixteen. A guy asked, “You’re not sixteen are you?” She answered, “Yup, and my kids are twenty-seven and twenty-eight!”
            Once I was inside, number nineteen had been called and I knew I was next, but my volunteer started talking about someone who had been bragging about how long he could have sex. He said he didn’t need to hear about it. Then he called my number and apologized for the risqué subject matter. I told him, “I’m a poet. Nothing’s too risqué for me.”
Of the shelf items, what stood out for me was a big box of Heritage Ancient Grains cereal. The greatest chance for something out of the ordinary will come from Sue in the refrigerated section. There was a tub of Activia lemon yogourt. Sue said she was sceptical at first but found it to be pretty good. I’d had it before, back when it first came out and they had it on sale. The flavour is not that of lemon juice but of lemon zest, which makes it very uniquely flavourful. When Sue put the tub into my canvas bag, it didn’t fit as the cereal and the other items had been hurriedly packed because of the rushed format of shopping at the food bank. As she helped me rearrange my items she said, “You’re just like my man! You just shove everything in without thinking about it!” I got a sealed bag of chicken salad, which is something I’ve never seen in a supermarket, so I assume it’s more the type of thing one gets from a restaurant supplier.  The big scores of the day were two large, frozen rainbow trout fillets. On the way out, the vegetable lady gave me a head of leaf lettuce that, for a change, wasn’t wilted.
On the way up Dunn Avenue, I met the same pukey smelling garbage truck that had gone by my place earlier. A block past it, even though I was upwind of it, the rank smell was a stain on the air.
With the chicken salad mix, the lettuce and the multigrain bread loaf I’d gotten from the food bank, I was able to later on make a pretty good chicken salad sandwich. Because of the way it was pre-mixed though, unlike in the movie “Five Easy Pieces”, it would have been impossible to hold the chicken.
That afternoon I got a call back from my doctor’s office, telling me that I needed to come in, so I made an appointment for Thursday. I was a little worried, but I assumed it was probably either high cholesterol or high sugar, which would be something I could correct with my diet. 
That evening as I was riding east on Bloor Street, ash grey clouds floated against a background of dishwater grey. They seemed at home there, but complacent and unadventurous without blue skies to defy. I headed north on Dufferin and, as usual, the view to the west along Dupont was spectacular, with bright clouds at various angles and depths, criss-crossing the horizon.
I rode up to Davisville and Yonge and then crossed over to Mount Pleasant. Davisville is not very interesting in that stretch. There were just high-rises the whole way. I went down Mount Pleasant to St Clair and headed back to the west. Suspended under furrows of white clouds were a few vertical columns of vaporous drapery.
When I got home, there was still no trace of Daffodil. I went out back to call for her and I just happened to catch the outline of a cat that looked like her, two properties west, along the roof. I walked further out on our roof to get a better look, and sure enough, it was Daffodil, just sitting there looking at me from under another neighbour’s deck. She refused to come when I called, so I just left her to figure out what she wanted to do.
A couple of hours later, Daffodil came home, looking a little crazy for a while till she settled back in.
That night I watched another interesting and complicated episode of Bonanza. While Ben is away on business, a beautiful and classy woman shows up at the Ponderosa, introducing herself to Adam, Hoss and Little Joe as Ben’s new wife. She said they’d had a whirlwind romance and gotten married, and he sent her ahead while he finished his business. Hoss and Little Joe thought it was great, but Adam, the smart one, was sceptical. The woman though, produced a marriage licence that seemed to prove that she was Mrs. Ben Cartwright.  When Ben returned home he had no idea who the woman was and she in turn was surprised to see that the Ben Cartwright that she had married was not the same one who was standing before her. She said that the man had borrowed $50,000 from her. The whole family went with her to the town where she had married her Ben Cartwright to help her clear up the mess and get her money back. This turned out to be an elaborate con perpetrated by a dapper grifter, turned murderer, played by Adam West, and of course, the woman was in on it.
It’s always fun to see young Adam West, the future Batman, perform because he’s an even bigger over-actor than William Shatner, and he was so strangely pretty back then as well.
West’s character shot a miner in the back and then planted evidence pointing towards Ben being the murderer. Ben was jailed. The town was building towards lynching him, while Ben’s sons tried to find a way to prove him innocent. After an altercation with the townsfolk in a saloon though, the boys are also arrested. Adam escapes and proceeds to track down Adam West’s character, eventually killing him and convincing the woman to confess. It turned out though that the sheriff was also in on the plot, so when he tried to shoot the woman, Adam had to kill him. Complicated, eh?

Wednesday, 9 September 2015

My Tub Runneth Over


          

            On Tuesday morning I got my place ready for the exterminator. I washed my bedding in the bathtub. On spray days I usually put the cats out at 8:30, but since Jonquil was still in heat, I put her outside earlier. It’s weird how they know beforehand that I’m going to make them leave the apartment. I don’t think they’re psychic, but I do think they are very sensitive to subtle changes in my behaviour that trigger for them that there’s a reason to hide. To be fair, they are not that smart. Sometimes they hide when I’m not planning on putting them out, but they see me walking back and forth carrying things like I do on those days.
            I vacuumed the couch futon, which was brand new a month ago but sure doesn’t look it now. One of the problems is that my cats all have white bellies and this is a black futon.  Although they haven’t been using it for a scratching post, sometimes when they are sleeping, they reach out and grip the fabric with their claws. There is one small hole so far.
            I drained the bathtub and started filling it up again to rinse my bedding. I had decided to post my essay about poetry slams on my blog, but I needed to make adjustments in the HTML language so that the online version would match the original text. I was working on that when suddenly there was a hard knock on my door. I thought that the Orkin guy had finally arrived. I went out in the hall and it was the manager from the donut shop downstairs. He asked angrily, “What are you doing, Buddy?” Suddenly I realized that I’d forgotten to turn off the faucet in the tub. He said, “You flooded us downstairs!” I rushed to turn it off. He asked again, “What are you doing?” I said, “Sorry!” He responded, “Sorry?” I didn’t know what else I could say. I guess I could have offered to mop up downstairs but I focused on sponging up all the water that had flooded my bathroom. I felt pretty stupid and worse, since it’s not the first time this has happened in the eighteen years I’ve lived there. I think that the last time was about five years ago, and the problem was again, getting involved with something unusual on the computer and then forgetting the water. I think that when my daughter was living with me she also overflowed the tub at least once. Fortunately the Coffeetime has different owners now than it did then, otherwise they’d see me as a serial offender. I guess the landlord already does see me that way though, since he’s owned the building for about fifteen years.
            To make a shitty day even worse Orkin didn’t come to treat the place after all. So I had wet bedding to hang out on a sometimes-wet day and no reason to have washed the stuff in the first place. The superintendent told me that they were definitely going to come next Monday and he also booked them for two weeks after that.
            I took a siesta with no bedding and no pillows. I didn’t go for a bike ride in the evening because the timing was awkward once I dealt with moving furniture back into place and putting drawers away.
            My cat Daffodil didn’t come home that night, which was generally uncharacteristic of her, but in her life I think she has stayed away a few times, so I wasn’t too worried.
            That night I watched an episode of Bonanza about a family of crazy Kentucky hillbillies who were travelling across the Ponderosa. The show started with two members of the family, a father and daughter, who were travelling ahead. The father had the crazy idea that he was going to take a large portion of the property as his own and so started a fire with the intention of burning the forest down so it would become pasture. The fire would have burned 20,000 acres of forest but Little Joe happened to be riding by and put the fire out. The father said he would shoot Joe if he tried to put out the fire and indeed, tried to shoot him in the back with his shotgun. Little Joe had no choice but to draw his gun and kill him in self-defence. Then he had to figure out what to do with the young woman who was bent on killing him out of revenge. Since he couldn’t just leave her there he had to tie her up and take her home. They hired a woman to come and bathe her and Hoss designed a restraining implement to keep her in the tub, because it seemed that she had never had a bath before and didn’t want to start. They bought her clothes and the woman dressed her but they still had to tie her to a chair as Little Joe tried to take the kinks out of her hair, until she bit him. Then Hoss took over, since he’s the brother who does the best job at taking the kinks out of the horses’ tails. The rest of the family arrive, getting word that a Cartwright has killed one of there’n. They are led by a mean, whip cracking grandma who believes in an eye for an eye. Little Joe goes to explain why he had to shoot her son, but he also tries to shoot Joe in the back and gets killed. It looks like it’s going to be war but the family rebels against the grandma because there’s been too much killing. Finally, and unrealistically, she gives in and immediately becomes friends with the Cartwrights.

Tuesday, 8 September 2015

Songwriting Collaboration Is A Utopian Dream: a review of the Tranzac Open Stage for Monday, September 7th

      



       On September 7th I rode through the soft, hot night to my last Monday night open stage at the Tranzac for at least the next three months. The Southern Cross bar was extremely cold but Sarah Greene, working the bar again, said she didn’t know how to turn it down, so it has to either be on or off.
       The open stage list was wide open, so I picked number three and sat down to tune my guitar in an unusually quiet room, but I was glad for that. Of late, the music has been quite loud there. Ben Bootsma had dropped in and there was also a pretty young blonde woman sitting at the bar. She’d apparently just wandered in on a whim and had never been in the Tranzac before.
       They were talking about careers and the expectations of relatives as to what one should have accomplished by a certain age. The consensus was that money isn’t important unless one is raising kids, which none of them were. Sarah commented that she loves that, in her career as a writer, she can have a friend over to her place for lunch, on a weekday. Sarah said that she could work as a psychologist right now and that Ben could teach music if he wanted to.
       Chris Banks, this week’s open stage host arrived at about quarter to start time. Ten minutes later, Sarah and Bryan came in. Bryan asked if I’m doing some good writing, but I didn’t really know how to answer his question. I think that people think that when I’m writing at my table during the open stage, it is something unrelated to the event. They don’t realize that I’m actually noting everything that’s happening in the moment.
       At just after 22:00, Chris was still setting up. Ten minutes later, Bryan and Sonja remembered to sign up to perform.
       We started at 22:12 with Sonja, who shared with us the first song she ever wrote, which she told us, was “in true Sonja fashion, about unrequited love.” The song was called “Still Chasing Shadows” – “ … I’m the silly girl that asked for more … still chasing shadows, we all know how that goes …”
       For her second song, she had Bryan come up to play guitar and she turned away from the piano to just use the vocal mic. She said that she just taught Bryan the song the day before. The song was entitled “Lorelei” and it was a kind of fairy tale love song about a mermaid and a king.
       Bryan stayed onstage because he was next on the list, but Chris said at this point that we could all do three songs, so Sonja did a cover of Patty Griffin’s “Up to the Mountain”, which was apparently inspired by Martin Luther King’s “I’ve Been On the Mountaintop” speech.
       Bryan’s set began with “Steer You Right”, which he co-wrote with his cousin Danann, who was also there that night. It turns out that all of the originals that Bryan sings are the result of that same collaboration. Last week, Sonja had been too nervous to accompany Bryan on the piano at the same time as she was doing her backup vocal, but they’d been practicing and she did play this time. Musically it’s a pretty good song, and Sonja’s vocal has been arranged very well to make for a sweet and soulful enhancement. It’s not really my type of song, but it’s certainly as good or better than a lot of the love songs one hears becoming hits.
       Bryan’s second song was “Chopping Wood”, which he’d also done last week. It’s heavily loaded with the metaphor of the process of gathering the right kind of wood to build a fire representing how one keeps love burning in a relationship.
       Before Bryan began his third song, I asked him about the writing process that he and Danann use for their song writing collaboration. I wondered if one of them writes the lyrics while the other writes the music, but he said that they do everything together. I asked if twenty years down the road, when they are famous, they might each claim to have written the songs by their self. At first Bryan said that’s already happened but then he said he was just kidding. He said, “Well, you know what it’s like. You’ve probably collaborated with someone.” In terms of song writing, I really haven’t. I told him that I once had a drummer who didn’t want to play the way I asked and that the drummer had argued that a band is a democracy. I said, “No it’s not! You’re fired!”
       Bryan’s third song was another of his and Danann’s, and it was called “Future Girl”. He said that it was actually the first song they had written together. It was a love song to someone who hadn't yet entered his life.
       I was the next and the last performer. Counting Sarah and Chris, there were a total of six people in the room. I announced that this would be my last night, since I would have classes on Tuesday morning starting the following week. I told them that my first song would be my first attempt to perform one of my translations of a Jacques Brel song, this one being “Ne Me Quitte Pas” which was most famously translated into English by Rod McKuen. I said that Rod McKuen died early this year and he never spent a single day in jail for his crimes against poetry. I said I was unsatisfied with his translations because he didn’t transfer the darkness of Brel’s songs. Chris wanted to know who has done the song that he might have heard and Sonja answered “Edith Piaf”.
       I didn’t make as many mistakes playing the song as I expected I would – “Please don’t leave me now, we need to forget all that’s tumbled down, and the many times that we got it wrong, how to get along, and the wasted days, let go of the time we so often lost and the joy it cost to keep asking why …”
       I decided to do “One Hundred Hookers” as my second song, but I introduced it by talking about the poem that my friend Cad Gold Jr. had written twenty years ago that talked about him having a hundred hookers in love with him and how they have sex with him for free. I told them that when I first saw the poem I thought, “This has got to be a song!” Again, I didn’t make a lot of guitar mistakes and the little group that were there, including Sonja, thought the song was funny.
       I finished with “The Next State of Grace” – “ … my mind hangs above this emotional wreck like a scavenger looking for parts, and it lives in a mansion that’s built from the sweat of my tar paper third world heart …”
       It was still one hour to midnight and that was the end of the open stage. Since Chris doesn’t bring his bass with him when he hosts, he doesn’t play us in or out, so there’s a better chance of finishing early. I was glad of that because there was a thunderstorm warning for midnight and I didn't want to get caught in the rain, though it didn’t happen in my area after all.
       On their way out, both Danann and Sonja were quite complimentary about my lyrics to “The Next State of Grace”.

Poetry Slams: Monster Truck Rallies for Writers



            Poetry slams are often exciting and entertaining events that provide a great
opportunity for audiences to experience poetry and prose in their most natural medium, that of the human voice. Slam poets orate in an upbeat manner, often giving electrifying performances of easy to understand compositions that are sometimes quite creatively written1. Such events have the potential to expose poetry to a much larger audience than would be drawn to it in its textual manifestation. However, there are snakes in the garden of slam poetry. Slams encourage writers to compose for entertainment purposes, thereby causing the art form to deteriorate and the poet to write with less honesty2. A limited range of poetic genres are represented in poetry slams, which causes important forms to fall by the wayside. The idea of poets competing against one another for a prize causes them to write according to what they think will win the contest. Finally, in one aspect of slam competition, the genre of haiku is severely misrepresented and even insulted in the way it is used.                 Slam poetry is written for an audience. More specifically, it is written to produce an audience reaction. This wouldn’t be so bad if the response hoped for by the slam writer wasn’t always an agreeable one. What poets are supposed to do is to write on what they think or feel about what they have experienced. If they do it well they may generate those same thoughts or feelings in a reader or listener. But a poet should not write in anticipation of a desired reaction. A poet is an explorer, a pioneer and a mapmaker of the psyche. A poet should be creating material that has been mined from the full spectrum of their experience. It should not be the poet’s mission to excite or entertain an audience.  There is nothing wrong with such positive reactions, but poets should also be making audiences experience everything else a person can feel, such as terror, depression, numbness or even feelings of suicide.
             Slam poets step onto the stage wearing emotional prostheses and an invented self. While all styles of poetry could potentially be represented in poetry slams, the prominent ones tend to have either an agenda or populist humour or both in their content. The longer slam pieces are usually written and delivered in a staccato rhythm and propelled by indignation. The poet inside of the spoken word artist freezes in the headlights of the enthusiasm of the audience as the performer rises to power. The slam poet becomes addicted to getting a reaction out of the audience. Many slam poets are good writers, but their best work tends to be created when they step back from the audience and write on deeply personal subjects. As slams become their preferred medium of expression though, the spoken word artist loses touch with who they are and the great writing they might have composed will be swept away by the hope of future audience approval. They begin to define themselves by what they said in the past that was received enthusiastically by the audience. They become surfers on waves of applause and the winds of approving exclamation. They are not allowed to bring their inner pain to the stage because that will cause members of the audience to feel their own pain as well. This will disconnect them from the rest of the herd whose function is to manufacture enthusiasm for an agenda that the lowest common denominator of the group can understand. For the slam poet, a poem cannot fly unless it stimulates the crowd. For such an elevation to occur, the poem must  register for the audience as funny, exciting, moving or sympathetic. The best way to achieve this reaction is to single out a group that represents authority or create animagined common enemy for the audience to consider themselves adamantly separate from and above, and then attack or make fun of that adversary. This allows the audience to share the feigned anger, antagonism or ridicule of the performer towards that group or authority. If the slam poet is of a group against which there is a commonly recognized prejudice in society at large, the material writes itself3. If one can write about one’s race or gender, or write about why one is not writing about one’s race or gender, which of course is the same thing, the effect upon the audience can be magical. To paraphrase Leonard Cohen, to think of oneself as an oppressed minority is an intoxicating feeling4, and if one can skillfully push an agenda that will sow seeds of sympathetic anger in an audience the result can be akin to them having been also swept up in that same high5.
             It is very important though for slam poets not to be boring because the whole purpose of a slam poem is to counteract the ennui of the audience. Serious word artists however, do not care if the audience is bored. Good poems are written by individuals and therefore their secondary purpose is to be heard and understood by other individuals. The odds are that within an audience there are only a handful of such people listening. Poems written by slam poets are meant to be understood right away, whereas the best poetry enters one’s head sideways, or is raveled up or layered in such a way as to take time to fully comprehend.
            The chances are that no one is going to either win a slam or enthuse a slam audience by reading sonnets, romantic poetry, or haiku, although the poems presented may very well sometimes take the shape of these genres6. Such poems would, however, have the distinctive content and style of slam poetry.
            Slam poets learn to practice crowd control, and in this sense they are very similar to drug dealers. The drugs they deal though tend to be the exciting ones rather than the interesting ones. The slam audience will not experience, for instance, the poetic equivalent to an acid trip that would come from hearing a surrealist poem, unless it is done as a parody.
             There is a difference between reading an unfinished poem in public to test how it resonates from other points of view and writing a poem specifically for an audience. Ultimately the poet’s work is none of the audience’s business in terms of like or dislike. What the poet should be using the audience for is to spark interest. When a poem is finished or has reached a plateau in the writing process it can and should be shared with an audience. Poetry is, at its roots, a spoken or sung medium. It is best to speak it even while writing it in order to achieve a rhythm that works, but it must come from one’s creative core. If it is written for someone else it is at best creative in the same way that a good commercial can be, but will be missing something at its center. To write with an audience in mind one might just as well write one’s best ad for Coca Cola.
             Another questionable aspect of poetry slams is the element of competition. Of course, everyone is to some extent competitive, but for those spoken word artists whose poet has been undermined by their performer, hearing how to please the audience compels them to alter their own style to a more crowd friendly form. Is the turning of poetry into sport really an honourable direction for an art form to go? Should there be American Expressionist painting races or competitive surrealist Pictionary as well?
             There is often part of a poetry slam known as the “Haiku Death Match”. The poems used in these sections are rarely, if ever, actually haiku, but to call it a “short poem death match” does not have much of a ring to it. The poems are given a name that the slam audience recognizes to be too sophisticated to relate to in its traditional form, but which they feel satisfyingly on top of when it is made to look ridiculous in a slam. In these contests, an attempt is made to legitimize their use of the name “haiku” by requiring that the poems be written in the traditional three line format with the accompanying five, seven, five syllable count. This merely cosmetic version of haiku, gutted and replaced with mostly a content of humorous punch lines is the poetic equivalent of the segments of 19th Century minstrel shows in which blackface performances occurred. White performers pretended to be black performers because it was both a way of being close to something exotic yet rendering it ridiculous at the same time, thereby maintaining their sense of superiority over it7. Short poems in slams are dressed up as haiku for the same reason. Just as African Americans were generally insulted by being parodied in blackface, the culture and genre of haiku is also being insulted by the way it is misrepresented in poetry slams. The audience reaction to both of these events can also fit into this analogy. Most poetry readers and listeners feel distanced from haiku in the same way that white audiences, although on a much larger scale, felt apart from black people. As was true for the minstrel show attendants, there is also generally no awareness among slam audiences that any insult is taking place. We now recognize that blackface was insulting to African Americans and yet slam poets have yet to realize that representing three line jokes as haiku is also insulting to those who work seriously in the haiku genre.
             It is surprising that so many slam poets are indignant in response to the suggestion that they shouldn’t use the word haiku to name the short poems they write for slams. Their responses are often comparable to those of descendants of European colonists when they hear Native Americans suggest they should go back to Europe. Some may counter that this argument is nit picking with language and that one might as well say that the short poem contest shouldn't be called a death match, since no one dies as a result of the competition. Death matches, however, are not the genre of an art form and there is no culture built up around them.
             Slam poets are satisfied that if they stick to the 5-7-5 syllable count they are following the criteria of writing a haiku, yet they throw the more important elements of such a poem out the window. One wouldn't claim that every poem made up of fourteen lines was a sonnet, so why call every 5-7-5 poem a haiku? The irony here is that serious western haiku poets use the 5-7-5 syllable count less than slam poets do. Some don't confine themselves to the three lines, the season reference, or the change of direction, but at its very essence a haiku has to capture a moment or else it isn't a haiku8.
             Some argue that the short poems in slams are the slang of haiku. But if that’s true, then they should have derivative yet separate names as is the case in other slang. Others claim that the slam poem is a revolution against the formal institutions of poetic meter, which may be true, yet in the imitation of haiku the slam poet is required to follow the five seven five rule, which is the most anal aspect of haiku. If the slam movement is so inclined to wash away convention in poetry, they should not throw the present moment out and then go through the process of squeezing syllables into a count that, outside of the Japanese language, does nothing to enhance the poem whatsoever. Others insist that these poems are an evolution of haiku of equal merit to deviations from tradition practiced by other western haiku poets. This, however, would only be true if the poets who wrote them were well practiced in the writing of traditional haiku and had gradually felt the need to change the form over a long relationship with the genre. In any study of art, the student is expected to learn the rules so they know how to break them. Salvador Dali, for example, would not have been so artful in his rule breaking if he hadn't studied the old masters first. In most cases though, the first experience that slam poets have with writing haiku is their having to compose a 5-7-5 poem for a slam death match. Haiku poets know how to break the rules of haiku without losing its essential elements. Slam poets though, in their bastardization of the genre, do not give the impression that they even like haiku. The short poems referred to as haiku in slams are not the next step in the advancement of the haiku genre. They lack the depth provided by the essential elements without which a poem is not a haiku at all9.
                 Some may argue that labels are unimportant, and that it doesn’t matter if one refers to, for instance, a symbolist poem as a surrealist poem as long as one enjoys the writing. But if an event was advertised that featured, for example, surrealist poetry, shouldn’t one go there expecting to hear surrealist poetry being read, rather than someone saying “It’s just a label, man!”? Why do slam poets bother to put short poems under the umbrella of the haiku genre? There’s something ironic about defending the use of a label by arguing that labels are unimportant. It is true that some art falls outside of genres, defying description and definition. But if one wants to label something that one has done as being part of a genre, the piece should contain more than just a superficial element of that genre. Haiku as a genre, and every other literary species, requires more than a syllable count for a work to be part of it10. Others may argue that to call the short poems in slam competitions “haiku” can be seen as a tribute, but this brings us back to the analogy of slam "haiku" as compared to blackface in minstrel shows. It was argued by some blackface performers that their portrayals of Black people were homage to African American culture. The minstrel shows played to audiences in the northern states of America and in the British Isles where people had no real experience of African American culture, just as most slam audiences have no real experience of haiku11.
            Some might argue that the use of blackface as a comparison to haiku death matches is out of line. If this analogy for some reason offends sensibilities, I will offer an alternative. Slam poets occupying the genre of haiku and claiming a piece of it as theirs can be compared to all forms of colonization.
             There is nothing wrong necessarily with the short poems that slam poets write. The slam poem is a unique genre and its short form is also unique to that genre. The poems are often funny, clever, and even sometimes creative, so there is no reason why slam poets are not capable of coming up with a word that represents the kind of short poems they write, and that doesn't both steal from and insult a genre that a culture is built around. It would not be inappropriate for slams to call the poems something that pays tribute to the fact that they were inspired by the shape of haiku. One possibility is “slyku”, or another is “lieku”.
             While many poets bring various derivative forms of writing into poetry slams, slam poetry has a distinctive style that dominates these competitions in the same sense that haiku is distinctive. Undoubtedly as the years progress the genre of slam poetry will become more and more defined. There is a culture built around poetry slams and the writing represented there, and the slam poets take their work very seriously. Because of this they should understand the seriousness other types of poets feel towards their respective genres. If slam poets use only the skeletal form of haiku, leaving out the essential elements, and yet claim that it is haiku, it gives the audience the wrong impression of what haiku is. This could potentially cause the haiku genre to decay as the derived form is perpetuated.
             Poetry slams could go a long way towards removing several of their flaws by not allowing performance to be one of the criteria in the judgment of the contest. This could be achieved by not selecting judges at random from the audience, but rather inviting experienced poets in advance to come and assess the quality only of the writing being presented. Objective criticism is more easily accomplished when the critic is prepared for the responsibility. Also the engagement of the audience in the judgment process by displaying numbered score cards should be eliminated. Judges should choose the poets they think are the best or consult one another in their moments of indecision, but audiences, who have come mostly to be entertained, can not be objective. Spoken word events are entertaining enough in themselves without having to place an emphasis on performance.

1. Wikipedia. American poetry. American poetry today. “Poetry slams emphasize a style of writing that is topical, provocative and easily understood.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_poetry
2. Timpane, John. What to Expect at a Poetry Slam. Poetry For Dummies. “A certain kind of poet, and a certain kind of poetry, goes over well at slams. Self-indulgence is expected. Performers will do just about anything in a poem (or a performance!) to win the audience.” http://www.dummies.com/how-to/content/what-to-expect-at-a-poetry-slam.html                                                                                                                        3. Grambo, Isaac. Contemporary Critique. Legend Myth and Street Cred in the Image of the Artist. “I am not saying that coming from poverty, racial discrimination, domestic violence or homophobia are advantages in life.  I am saying that plumbing the depths of those experiences in writing and performing slam poetry can bring high scores from judges”.  http://contemporarycritique.wordpress.com/2012/06/02/legend-myth-and-street-cred-in-the-image-of-the-artist/
4. Cohen, Leonard. Beautiful Losers. New York. Bantam Books. (1970). 149-150.
“We walked along Sherbrooke Street, west toward the English section of the city. We felt the tension immediately. At Parc Lafontaine Park we heard the shouted slogans of a demonstration.
-Québec Libre!
-Québec Oui, Ottawa Non!
-Merde à la reine d’anglaterre!
-Elizabeth Go Home!
The newspapers had just announced the intention of Queen Elizabeth to visit Canada, a state visit planned for October.
-This is an ugly crowd, F. Let’s walk faster.
-No, it is a beautiful crowd.
-Why ?
-Because they think they are Negroes, and that is the best feeling a man can have in this century.”
5. Huxley, Aldous. Brave New World Revisited. New York. HarperCollins. (2006). 41. “ … a man in a crowd behaves as though he had swallowed a dose of some powerful intoxicant. He is a victim of what I have called ‘herd poisoning’.”                                    6. Singler, Fluffy. The Politics of Poetry Slam. Fluffy’s World. Jan 3, 2008. http://fluffysingler.blogspot.ca/2008/01/sentiment-and-memory-politics-of-poetry.html “poems dealing with race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, or angry politics in general will do better in poetry slams than a piece of surrealism”
7. Abolition. History of Minstrelsy from “Jump Jim Crow” to The Jazz Singer. 2012. http://exhibits.lib.usf.edu/exhibits/show/minstrelsy/jimcrow-to-jolson/abolition. “ Part of the draw of minstrel shows was the opportunity for white urban audiences to get a glimpse of purportedly genuine African American life, behavior, singing and dancing that took place on rural plantations. Songs supporting abolition emphasized the suffering of slaves rather than contentment on the plantation. However, there was a condescending edge to the abolitionists’ call to pity slaves.” 
8. Kacian, Jim. Haiku Content. New Zealand Poetry Society. http://www.poetrysociety.org.nz/node/193. “Essential to haiku is “presentness.” The moment of insight in haiku exists, as we have said, outside of time. And because of this experience of timelessness, we do not conceive of things happening during such a realisation in the past or future, but only in an eternal present. The practical effect of such a sensation is that we write haiku in the present tense. This is more than simply an affectation or aesthetic decision: this is the poetic analogue to the ongoingness of our revelation. It has the further effect of allowing the reader to enter more directly into the poem: it is seen as vital and current, rather than reportage of an event once glorious but now gone… Another effect of locating haiku in the present is that this provides every poem with a sense of endlessness — it is the psychological truth that, given literary form, we can experience only the present moment.
9. Swede, George. Towards a Definition of the English Haiku. the haikai.info| haikai.org (hiho) project. http://www.haijinx.com/originals/haikai/articles/swede.definition.html.  “Most English-language haiku poets have long recognized that the seventeen-syllable length was designed for the characteristics of the Japanese language, not the English... 80% of the haiku published in the best anthologies and periodicals have fewer than seventeen syllables… breath-length has become the sole measure of brevity for the vast majority of English-language poets… for the haiku to be effective, it must capture the essence of an experience... this essence is best expressed in one breath length”
10. Wappner, Bette Norcross, editor. Definitions. United Haiku and Tanka Society News Bulletin. March, 2014. http://www.unitedhaikuandtankasociety.com/definitionsuhts141.html. “Haiku is a succinct write equal to 3 lines (it doesn't matter how that equal is arranged, 1 line, 2 lines, or in 3 lines), but what does matter are the rest of the requirements, which are: that it captures a sensory perceived moment, and contains either a kigo (season word) that directly indicates a season, or other words that indirectly evoke a feeling of the natural world we live in. It has a 2-punch juxtaposition that equals a kireji (cutting word) which creates a conscious pause. Haiku no longer must always conform to the 5,7,5 syllable count; rather it should be close to a short, long, short rhythm. The correctly written haiku contains a setting, subject, verb, plus an “aha” moment, which can compare to the sound of the “pop” of that very first “kernel” when you make popcorn.”
11. Wikipedia. Blackface. “Stereotypes embodied in the stock characters of blackface minstrels not only played a significant role in cementing and proliferating racist images, attitudes and perceptions worldwide, but also in popularizing black culture… ”. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blackface.