From November 2006
“From a habitual low scorer” — referring to my days as a slam poet. Enjoy!
I’m happy where i am.
and i’m ok with your confused look, how your head shook
how you said i took you by surprise…and not in a good way.
and why?
why would i be happy with your misunderstanding of what i say?
why would i feel the feeling of insult and judgement and be ok?
you see, i’m not a poet so that i can translate, amalgamate or postulate theories.
it’s simply a series
of personal truths
spun into a web of words
made holy by a stage and an audience like you.
I do it because I love to weave words into phrases,
phrases into stanzas
stanzas into symphonies
and sing to you about realities.
in a word…
or in several…
let me explain.
i love how words wear meaning like brides wear white dresses.
love how words fluctuate and ripple, make messes,
love how words beat out sound like drumlines
draw sketches on composer manuscrips with cadence rhymes
love how words seduce ice blocks
and squeeze water from rocks
love how words mean nothing and everything at the same time
love words…
so as a poet. when i use these weapons and wield whatever power
I’ve stored in the attic of this ivory tower.
i can only hope each one will do as they are meant to do.
pursue and renew
subdue and imbue your emotion.
in a word…
or in several…
let me explain.
i hope they make you cry
make you laugh
make you want to love
make you remember love
make you want to forget everyone you’ve ever loved.
i hope they make your stomach turn
i hope they make you scream
i hope they piss you off
i hope they make you hate me
then hate yourself for falling in love with me
i hope they make you hate yourself
and then love yourself for remembering how to fall…
i hope they make you question your life and your logic
i hope they make you question my life and my logic.
i hope they give you meaning and take it away in the same sentence.
i hope you have no fucking clue what they mean at all…
love words…
they are the most precious thing i can create
they’re my last two coins thrown at the offering plate
they attach the skin to my being and give it form
storm castles
tear tassels dangling at the edges of reborn
but with every gift comes the responsibility
to give it away
so if i have anything at all to say
it will be what i give to you so you can know it
and that is the only prayer of this poet.
Charly Slipp 