Oh..Yeah...Right....There!

• Aight People, the weekend is not yet over so this is just a semi wrap-up. Last night, I learned something and I want to share. Pull up a chair. I went to a poetry reading Friday night. But this was no ordinary poetry reading. This was, as the flyer stated "Erotic Poetry". At the urging of my friend, I toyed with the idea of reciting a piece that night. Now would be a good time to mention that I have not performed a poem before a crowd in almost ten years. Flashback to 1999 and you could find me spittin' at the Nuyorican Poet's Cafe, the Brooklyn Moon, Bowery Poetry Club and I even filled in at the bar I worked at whenever someone backed out. That being said- I'm out of practice, so to speak.

Anyway, I signed up and brought a piece with me that was sensual, sexual and overall means a lot to me. Before I even hit the stage, I knew what was going to happen. Sure enough, I witnessed what the masses view as erotic poetry. There was absolutely no subtlety whatsoever. Almost every piece that solicited hooting and hollering was laden with explicit, very unpoetic prose that did more to beat you over the head than awaken your sexual senses. You've heard it time and again. The most sensitive sexual organ is between your ears. But just about every poem I heard was big on shock value and low on mental stimulation. After an hour of hearing a string of 'P*ssy. Ass Crack. Swallow. F*ck Me.' tirades- I got no aural pleasure.

Well, by the time I got to the stage I knew my fate was sealed. The crowd was revved for what I can only assume was more of the same. What they got however was just a very personal slice of me- without hearing about my tight Sugar Walls... my throat that is deep like the River of Jordan...my fine freaky ass. Honestly, I don't care how pretentious the next statement makes me sound. This Bug will not dumb it down for mass consumption. If the attention span and depth of an audience does not go beyond the confines of the raunchy or pornographic, it is not my duty to cater to it. If I really wanted to- I could adopt what I see as the standard "Def Poetry" cadence while I talk about him sinking...his inches...into...my...berry framed mouth. C'mon now. Nah, it's not gonna happen. That's not an aphrodisiac in my book. I will not spoon feed Filet Mignon to those who can only appreciate Salisbury steak. It's times like this that Lauryn Hill's line in Zealots rings true. "And even after all my logic and my theory- I add a Muthaf*cka so ya'll ig'nant n*ggas hear me." We cry the same tear, L-Boogs.