I’m a spoken-word noob and I feel like a boob ‘cause some vids on Youtube are the only thing I’ve seen of this phenomenon. So I’m damn sure I don’t know what’s goin’ on. And I strongly suspect that these rhymes that I wreck have been spoke by some jokers before. I bet every virgin who wakes to the urgin’ to cut like a surgeon with words had stood on a platform and mangled the art-form by stringin’ ‘noob’ and ‘boob’ and ‘tube’ and ‘virgin’ ‘urgin’ and ‘surgeon’ into a pretzel-twist of pretentious mess, the gist of which comes off like a fist-caress, and makes you moan wondrin’ how much longer Old White Guy can toddle the highway before somebody stops his meanderin’, his spoken word panderin’, and screams “You Suck!”
Yeah. Well we all suck the first time. And many times after, no doubt.
But when the fire of Creation jumps into your soul you did not see it comin’, it pours into the hole, and keeps flowing, pouring, burning, surging. And the hole you’ve got inside that you thought was an endless abyss turns out to be so damn small compared to what’s rushing in, gushing in, not enough of you to take it in…
So it has to pour out. Flames dancing out the top of your head, words you don’t know shooting out of your mouth, making no sense, having no form – beyond your control, this spirit-filled soul, it does what it does and it takes you along. You’re a broken bicycle, rusty, squeaky, got no right to be cheeky. wheels aren’t even round your chain droops to the ground – you can’t make this sound that comes from Out There, you say you can’t be ridden but the sound comes unbidden it comes from Out There like She just doesn’t care that you’re just some cranky creaky no right to be cheeky – She chose you anyway, and she jumps on and starts pedaling away. “Don’t tell me who I can’t Love, silly boy-man,” she says. “Don’t tell me you’re not fit to ride. I don’t care ‘bout your fails, your lies and betrayals, I don’t care that your heart is all punctured with nails. You’re mine. You got something to say, something to do, so enough with self-pity boy-man I choose YOU.
But you’re scared. Even as Her love flows in and animates your corpse of a soul and you start saying the words you should not know how to say, even as you tango with the whirlwind there’s a part of you that screams “This is going to kill me! I’m not made for this! Too fragile, too frail, too small, too old, too burdened with the stuff that the world makes me want. Too risky. Too broken. If you don’t let me shut up I’ll lose it all and shatter, spatter, my pieces all scattered.”
“But that’s not what matters,” she says with a smile. “You give me an inch I’ll take you a mile. I know damn well what you’re made for. I made you. I AM the muse of fire, and I HAVE ascended the brightest heaven of invention, and you, boy-man, are in on the plan. Too long you’d just dream it, now it’s time to BE it, get off of your ass and let’s go. It’s not about talent, it’s not about style, and it’s not about how much you know. Step up and stop hiding together we’re riding to places where Kingdom hearts grow. Embrace your new verse, it’s no better, no worse, than the words that all children sow.”
It’s time to get on with the Show.