DEF POERY JAM REVIEW

byLATASH N NEVADA DIGGS
so yeah…this girl said “he fucked me like brooklyn” at a recent taping for
Def Poetry Jam’s fourth session.

so what’s in it for me?

(I) am the voyeur who needs to be viewed w/ parameters. a (hy)brid
mix master of hermit & camera hog. harlem/chicago
cage dancer & green thumb
good days. sour months. wick wick wack poems. analog prose.

just look at the medals…
my first was for femme realness in 1992.

so yeah…this girl said “he fucked me like brooklyn” at a recent taping for
Def Poetry Jam’s fourth session.

went out to show some love for a chi-town mermaid. she pleased me. she did her thing. a not so obvious but not so new styli tribute to black women & rock n’ roll.
so yeah

much love to the mama

wandered about in the VIP room/in the audience/on the balcony/kept saying…
so this is going to make things happen for the state of poetry?

is this it?

& this girl (maybe of jewish upbringing, maybe just white)
said “he fucked me like brooklyn”

ok.

ain’t gonna front. went from writing about dragons, police, karate flicks, trifle beeyaches,

did it under the title spoken word, journal entries, something literate.
got no issue about who the hermit is or where the tree lover is from.
the soul does not fight it like a Vanilla aka Vanwinkle.

tis the second love…oral text/oral verse/spoken/yelled/squealed

been there…

just kept wondering, (as I got into this heated but, controlled convo with a chacita in the vip)

this ain’t where every poet wants to be or needs to be.
there are beautiful things about it.
there are things about this that were attempted
a very very very long time ago.

this universe…the vip room…the stage…the paper shuffle…is business.

let me just flash it back a second…

*Flash*

first there was a spot in the LES. then there was…
bob holman’s rap meets poetry run at the nuyorican and later…
the fez
a place where folks got introduced to phife dog’s mom…poet cheryl boyce taylor
*Flash*

spoken word stage at lollapalooza. mr. holman in the mix again
*Flash*

green card poets & boom poetics when folks felt Bob was pimpin’ & jetted
*Flash*

soup collective when boom turns into the vibe chameleons
thus begins the monthly with giant step’s party at the supper club’s blue room now the gorilla room for def poets
*Flash*

the last New Music Seminar at the supper club featuring spoken word heads & lyricists
*Flash*

bob holman again with mouth almighty records…
mercury records’ spoken word label. anyone remembers flippin the script?

then, folks had pathologies with being recorded,
photographed without permission…contracts were resisted by all routes
*Flash*

(a) new crew/s & then…Eargasm

a small recap of the NYC/Brooklyn/Queens/Bronx box set

but folks don’t know about that…

greenpoint was cooking something too
there was a Black Star contingent broiling veggies alongside
underground, thoughts gave an eardrum & blunt to formula & anti-formula

Russell just had the camp & sefa to make it happen now. that’s all

who’s pimpin’ who now?
everyone.

to be at the supper club again (irony)

now back to the now that is now being accessed…

this ain’t all poetry on this stage
I’m hearing monologues…a good number of them
ok, there were monologues then. but now they’re just sad

big difference.

personally think a handful of these folks are actors
who seek launching their careers in this
it’s all good. love to you papa. love to you mama.

& this girl, me thinks is an ethnically ambiguous (chick)
looking very j-lo rejected-ISH, kept saying “he fucked me like brooklyn.”

so now I’m back stage again

see heads who first started booking “poets” at comedy clubs, those who first got peeps on the college chitlins circuit every black, women’s, poet’s, asian, gay month…

now they’re the talent !scouts! for this DEF thing.

back then MY shit was too political!?
now that’s funny.

everybody got a dang poem/monologue/rant about bush,
homeland security, w(u)men’s rights, blackness, puerto rico, mexico,
peter pan afrikan-ness, amethyst rocks purchased in pearl river on canal street

some good….some uuughhhh

the name is no longer _______________, the name is:

“YO! YOU FELL THE ***** OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH…
YOU STILL WRITING?”

yeah, mutha**FU^$Ka….still writing…got a ishin grant & mad plane ticket stubs to show you how much writing I’ve been doing &

not doing…

hate that muffin’ question

& this chick kept saying “he fucked me like brooklyn.”

the only pep from back then who’s genuinely happy to see my ass is this guy
who had a gallery back in 93′ on Houston Street…fun place to parley.

introduced to the main “talent” scout. (oooooooo)

she wants me to send a tape.
don’t have a tape.
not interested in hunting down someone to tape me reciting/performing
a 2-minute stint in front of a makeshift audience
to then stress further so it can be edited & sent to mr. lathan.

you see me when you see me.

it’s all love anyway… right?

I’m perturbed.

>>>what are the benefits Mr. Mos Def?

>>well, you get a hella better quality tape of your shit. you get some duckets in your dusty >>ass pockets. if you live somewhere else, you get a free plane ticket and a hotel room. >>maybe you’ll hook up with someone you like…have a drink. relieve some anxiety.

>>maybe you won’t

>>if you’re an actor or just look like one, you’ll probably become automatically eligible >>for SAG or that other union…AFTRA

>>next time, you’ll have to be a union member…maybe you won’t.
>>look into it…

>>you’ll hopefully convince one of those mofos to take you as a client and put you on the >>college chitlin circuit.

>>you’ll expand your audience. you’ll reach out to the younglings watching this. you’ll do> >something positive for the poetry community.

>>the academy has done far less than spoken word has for your people

>>you’ll get it out of your system.

>>YOU WILL EAT EVERY WORD YOU’VE SAID

>>so what are the other benefits Miss Hybrid?

>you’ll show other heads that they ain’t gotta hold onto that ole ass cadence,
>that ole ass (and IIIIII….am) ish,
>that typical (ing) ish at the end of every line break,
>that puerto rican ish,
>that mistook the thesaurus for the bible & went ballistic ish,
>that angry ish…
>that arm popping/flexing like they really wanna be a rapper to an unheard rhythm…

>like they can’t do something else

>that’s what the elders are there for
>let them do their shit & you come with the next shit

>but then again, your “peers” are no worse than mofos who would get the same ishin >smurf & smurfettes airbrushed on their jeans back when unique on broadway >downtown and mart 125 uptown were cool….

>it’s not like iron on letters came in ONLY ONE BUBBLE typeset you know…

>you’ve been to Woolworth’s.

>not like no one gets personal…it’s just not vulnerable or experimental enough for you >nowadays…

>so Miss Hybrid ask yourself, will you perform?

no….wellll um…maybe…huhhhhhh…nah…nah

nah kid…this ain’t you. you ain’t above it. you ain’t below it
you started listening to Sun Ra & he fucked you up
blame him, Divine Styler, Linda Sharrock, E. Torres
you bought a delay pedal & that’s the end of it
you’ve gone full circle with what you’re doing
your shit ain’t even in english anymore

(back stage again)

get to glance over the list of other folks
who are scheduled to perform/recite/read
names I’m really really surprised THEY are doing this

writer folks. prize winning writer folks. published, been published, & gonna stay published cause white people love the shit they write folks…

my head goes, well if THEY’RE doing this, me can’t be snotty then right?

there’s this gig I really want to do. Involves radio transistors. pays nothing. name’s not even anywhere where’s it’s being promoted. why is the hybrid doing it?
cut a residency short for this not paying a metro card bull…

bogus-ness me tells ya…absolutely

nothing…

& this ***** girl kept screaming “he fucked me like brooklyn”

the nimrod could have fucked her in harlem, in the booth of a freakin cruising book store in the west village…the simile doesn’t cut it…

but oh no…it gotta be Brooklyn

this is the only line I remember about her poem, about anyone’s poem,
about the VIP room with sliver construction paper for banana leaves
leaning over the stars of DEF,
about these faces that ain’t showed or showed very little love for a craft that should mutate every two years like the Whitney…

don’t remember it because it was tight
remember it because it was annoy-ing

Latasha N. Nevada Diggs