I’m liking this process of writing these off the top of my head, and putting them out there for immediate comment. It’s sorta like hanging fresh sheets of paint before knowing what the picture is of.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Night
sometimes leaves
wounds that never
heal. Broad daylight can carve you

too. Dawn and dusk hold their own
dangers. Face it:
nothing is safe, nothing is
comforting. You might as well

give up on growing old, as it
happens so rarely. In fact,
pretend you’re already dead.
Pretend you’re not American.

Pretend the clothes on your back
smell of napalm. Think
of imperialism as a flavor of the
month at the local ice cream parlor,

and scoop yourself out a double dip.
Buy jewelry from Mexico, henna from
Egypt, hash from what they tell you is Morocco
but is more likely Contra Costa, California.

Give up your television, praise your musicians,
wave a burning flag at the cameras, run home
to your parents when the flames get too close.
This is your world. All that danger you claim

to despise? It’s your breath. All that money
you claim to fear? It’s your blood. All that bullshit
you claim to reject? It’s your bullshit.
And owning your bullshit is part of growing up.

Night wounds you, yes; day carves you, yes;
everything is always fatal in the last reel. But
you were born here, you were made here, and as
bad as it is, bite down on it like tinfoil and love it:

it’s the only way
you’ll ever find
the heart
to make it disappear.

I’m liking this process of writing these off the top of my head, and putting them out there for immediate comment. It’s sorta like hanging fresh sheets of paint before knowing what the picture is of.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Night
sometimes leaves
wounds that never
heal. Broad daylight can carve you

too. Dawn and dusk hold their own
dangers. Face it:
nothing is safe, nothing is
comforting. You might as well

give up on growing old, as it
happens so rarely. In fact,
pretend you’re already dead.
Pretend you’re not American.

Pretend the clothes on your back
smell of napalm. Think
of imperialism as a flavor of the
month at the local ice cream parlor,

and scoop yourself out a double dip.
Buy jewelry from Mexico, henna from
Egypt, hash from what they tell you is Morocco
but is more likely Contra Costa, California.

Give up your television, praise your musicians,
wave a burning flag at the cameras, run home
to your parents when the flames get too close.
This is your world. All that danger you claim

to despise? It’s your breath. All that money
you claim to fear? It’s your blood. All that bullshit
you claim to reject? It’s your bullshit.
And owning your bullshit is part of growing up.

Night wounds you, yes; day carves you, yes;
everything is always fatal in the last reel. But
you were born here, you were made here, and as
bad as it is, bite down on it like tinfoil and love it:

it’s the only way
you’ll ever find
the heart
to make it disappear.

In order of finish:

Morris Stegosaurus (mstegosaurus)
Alex Charalambides (hairy_lamb)
Urban (the sole rookie)
Ryk McIntyre (on his first slam team since 1991)

Good slam with the usual Worcester Weirdness. And, Worcester’s first ever all male team.

Two slammers deliberately self-destructed in the final round:

Jon Wolf told the audience he didn’t deserve to be there and only got into the slam because someone else dropped out — so he begged the judges to give him zeroes (and 3 out of 5 complied, leaving him with a score of 8.0);

Dave Mac (penny_player) dropped “Sex is Funny” and asked the audience to just start yelling out words to improv from — he let that go on for a minute, then said “Thank You!” and got off the stage. He got a 6.8 combined score — lower than the guy who asked for zeroes! He told me afterward he thought the sound of all those words being shouted out was beautiful.

I love the Worcester scene for its refusal to take this at all seriously.

Morris will likely give the full blow by blow later.

Got home to the aftermath of a power outage and no ISP service till this AM — so those of you to whom I owed e-mails — sorry.