some chick at my job asked me

where she could go in philly “for some real good spoken word.” i was like, “i don’t know any places that do poetry readings on weeknights.” she asked about weekends. i told her no, because i don’t go to poetry readings. i don’t do spoken word. i’ve given a poetry reading or two in my day. but i’m not a spoken word artist. i don’t memorize my shit. i don’t tour anyone’s circuit, & truth be told the older i get the more i feel that my words need to be enjoyed quietly, & individually. i’m not keen on this shit.

i also resent, for the millionth time, the assumption that because i don’t have a perm, wear applebottoms, or go around singing avant songs that i know where to peep some spoken word shit. i don’t know because i don’t care. i don’t care because that shit isn’t me. if you do spoken word, boo, go right ahead. i’ll applaud you when you wreck shit, & golf clap you when you bomb. but that’s not me. my lack of noticeable around the way negritude means jack shit.

i don’t know
i write
i’m a ‘real poet’ meaning that i’m a person who sometimes writes poems
i don’t like that “how can i find real poets” shit from ppl who fail to understand that love jones is NOT real life
that ppl who write poems when they lose a love are as real as black ice, just not on the same wavelength
that your kids writing you one of those mother’s day poems are fucking real poets
the art in all of us should be apparent to all of us
& i guess until it is
motherfuckers will still be looking for a place where the artists gather
& unleash their talent on the world
but those places are everywhere
& those ppl are everyone.

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