Love Beats Rhymes Page #3

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your love's truest name

and claim the reign to victory.

Here, you get to be whoever

you want to be. And more.

Welcome to the house of smooth

lyrics and slam poetry.

Slick talk and real heartbeats.

Here time stands still.

The vibe tonight, we takin'

it higher than we ever been.

Our first poet, Adam Falkner.

I can't believe all these

people are here for poetry.

The whitest thing. Owning your

own white guilt isn't cool yet.

Listen, I'd like to introduce

two of my new students.

This is coco.

Hi.

Hey. How you doin'?

I'm well, thank you.

Nice to meet you.

And this is Julie.

- How you doin', Julie?

- Hi.

This right here, guys,

is the man. Coltrane.

He's a pillar of New

York's poetry community.

And he knows

professor Dixon pretty well.

Has she made your

life miserable, yet?

I see you know her very well.

Yes, very, very well.

She's my wife.

Well, I'm sorry to hear that.

Of all the street compliments

I get walking down the street

"Ga gless you, ma"

is my favorite.

So what's your thing?

She's a rapper that

doesn't like poetry.

Oh, come on.

Perfect. Perfect, coco.

Because you're gonna be a judge.

No.

Yes.

You can do it, you can do it. Don't

worry about it. You got taste?

Mmm.

All right, great.

Clip the keratin armor

until your nails are slick.

Keep each operation uniform.

Rank, file, top, sides.

Push back the enemy cuticles

with oil and lotion.

The chemical arsenal of a

Vietnamese manicurist named Chien.

A name that means "war."

Even oceans away, she carries

the war like a name.

She's bent over,

scrubbing your fingers.

The cuticle foliage remind her

of slaughtered soldiers, her dead

father, her sister buried alive.

"Tell me what color

you like."

Judges,

let me see those scorecards.

We got an 8.5.

A 9.5.

I see a 10 over there.

We got a 7 right here.

Uh, okay.

Damn!

People take this seriously.

Now perhaps I should

start this poem

by informing you

that I am bilingual.

That the queen's English that I

speak so eloquently before you now

is not my first language, no.

My grandmother

never used such diction

when she spoke me up in the welfare

line amongst the other dwellers.

Or when she called down to me from

the project window for dinner, no.

We spoke a more

Southern-fried English.

I am a be-hyphen-ginner and my

moves shall remain inadequate

until these hands can rip the

skull from out of my lips

and hand deliver you perfection.

Brown body collapses like

cardboard across the dance floor.

Sarcophagus unlocked.

Blades reveal,

blades reveal these bones.

My Swiss army skeleton.

Skull, Flathead screwdriver, finger

bone, switch shoulder, switchblade

switch rib cage keys cords cage.

The b-boy's spinal cord is key

to pandora's cardboard boom box.

Click and rewind. Click.

They scared o' you, black boy.

Do you see how they shiver

when you speak, young man?

How they speed up when you walk

behind them in your crown.

When you become a king and point

your notebooks at their temples.

When you rob them

of their knowledge.

When you carry your backpack

more than your basketball

and pull your jeans

up off your boxers.

When you put down your gloves

and stop fighting.

When you pick up your gloves

and keep fighting.

When you put a rod in your spine

and proclaim

you ain't ready to die.

Take your place

as the chosen people.

We have a 9.6.

And we got an 8.

We got a 10.

I want y'all to give it up

for Derek Morris, y'all.

Um...

Sounds of

apologetic hearts breaking

have been my life's anthem

since I was 16 years old.

Cultivating the platform for this

now 21 year old monument of a man

who's afraid of commitment.

I saw it first in my father.

When I realized

that he was afraid

of heights midair

of jumping the broom.

Attracted to women quick to

tie knots like boy scouts.

While simultaneously

making ones in the womb.

These were wavering women.

Willing to

compromise their morals

for the maintenance of morale.

Wailing women who viewed my father's

infidelity like a crucifixion.

I wonder how god felt

when he saw his own son die due

to a flaw within his own system.

Or how my father feels

when he sees his own son

strive to be nothing like him

so therefore

resembles his victims.

Do either of them live vicariously

through their children?

Or look away as they

go through hell and back.

Thank you.

Loved the poem,

hated his delivery.

Are we havin' fun

here tonight or what?

All right,

I wanna see some scores.

8.2.

We got a 9.5.

We got a 9.

And we got a 6.5.

She took him out.

Oh, damn.

Remember,

for the next two months

the winners of each weekly slam

will compete for a spot

on my 5 boros slam team.

Representing New York City

on labor day weekend

in the national competition.

He didn't mention

anything about that.

And tonight we have

our first finalist.

The winner of this weekly slam.

I want y'all to give it up

for Vanessa Hidary.

Peace, y'all.

Derek.

Hey. I just wanted to say that

your poems are really good.

So, what, you gave me low

scores just to mess with me?

No, not at all, I just...

Listen,

this may be a joke to you

but that 5 boros slam team

is important to me.

I just think your performance

could have been better.

And you know this

because you get up on a stage

and say whatever sh*t comes into

your mind and think that's poetry.

You know what? Save your constructive

bullshit for your homies.

Goodnight.

My homies?

That went well.

I told ya

you could be a good judge.

But damn, his students usually

give him a good score.

Very nice, miss Ford, very nice.

Thank you.

You've got

the voice and the snaps.

A real crowd pleaser.

But is that really

all you have to say?

Really, Mr. Morris,

what was that?

That was a rap.

This nigga.

Precisely.

Miss Ford, please, care enough

to learn the difference.

It's poetry, not rap.

Poetry, not rap.

Whatever.

Miss Ford, I like the rap.

But I liked it better when

mos def did it 10 years ago.

We are going to keep this up

until you write a poem.

If everybody else

in here can get that,

I don't understand

why you can't.

What is wrong with you?

What is your problem?

Children, please, understand,

this university

already has your money.

I already have your money.

You may as well learn something.

Dixon's not here.

I came to see you.

I'm looking for some advice.

Yeah, well, my advice to you,

if you don't respect the

curriculum, drop the class.

I wasn't trying to

be disrespectful.

Poetry is just

harder than I thought.

But I'm gonna get it.

Oh, well, thank you so, so

much for sharing that with us.

Do you know what Dixon

meant when she said

I need to learn the difference

between a rap and a poem?

I mean, I thought I knew,

but I obviously don't.

Look, rap, when you break it down,

is 95% bragging and boasting.

Poetry is more about truth

and introspection.

Nas, biggie, Kendrick Lamar,

plenty of rappers are

truthful and introspective.

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