You know the day is not going to be good when you measure the amount of sleep you got in minutes as opposed to hours courtesy of an all night hangout at the Nuyorican. Things started on the good foot as I met up with Scott Woods before his feature for some eats down at Mama’s Soul Food and who should happen to be there but Patricia Smith. Well hot damn. Good eats and even better conversation. Rich meets up with us and we trek down to the Café. Once we get settled in we find out that Roberto Ascalon is also in town for a minute to see hs sister Lisa with girlstory and is going to be in the Slam. Can a brother get a WEPA?

Scott blew my mind with an amazing set of page poetry. His cunnilingus poem may be the best I’ve ever heard and he hit way to close to home when he brought up the need for the family poet at a eulogy (the way I was thrust into poetry). An amazing set of poetry despite the drunk heckler (twice in one weel/what up wit dat?) and the fact that Mad (the performer) felt a need to let the whole Nuyo know he was in the house.

The Slam was proving to be uneventful. Other than ‘berto, I had heard it all already and was anticipating all the key OOO and AHH lines but then one slammer decided that a combined score of 40.5 was an insult and left before the third round. Me thinks someone has lost their Nuyo privileges. Patricia rocked the Sixth Poet slot, if you’ve seen Patricia that’s all you need to know and if you haven’t… what ya waitin’ for?

Exit Scott and Patricia/Enter Omar. The Open Room was just wild with one dude going so buck wild on his near incoherent tirade that I actually started getting uncomfortable. Put it to you like this, I would not have been surprised if he had pulled out a gun and blasted his head off in the last stanza. All the while the haterade is flowing free and loose from the tap in the back of the bar.

And just when you think the night is going to end without incident some drunk preppie asks us for directions as we ignore him and he starts yelling some stupid shit at us. So I turn around ask him where he wants to go (Clinton St) and send him in the opposite direction. Point, game, set, match- o.b.

A quick peek into Spring Lounge to check if e(g) was still in the house – it was only 3am – but no go.

My haterade at the Nuyo has been waning a bit especially since some cat RIPPED it two weeks ago with some crazy imagery. Yes, Virginia, there is some metaphor!

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1 Comment

  1. kind of off topic…
    saw that you were checking out
    the futurists, so i wanted to
    drop you a few names if you haven’t
    already checked them out –
    a crazy russian dude named
    vladimir mayakovsky (especially a piece called a cloud in trousers)
    and a
    not so crazy italian dude named
    auro d’alba (especially a piece
    called brush strokes)
    these guys, and marinetti for sure,
    were the hells angels of poetry
    back in their day


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