Saturday, November 22, 2014

"I Want to Be in a Band," Slam Poem UPDATED

UPDATE - Same post as before, except now with VIDEO of a PERFORMANCE. I get really into it towards the end, like, so much that you'll probably worry I had a heart attack. But don't worry. I survive.

Last week, the poet and author Dasha Kelly visited our school and shared some of her prose and poetry. It's been a long time since I have watched some quality spoken word. I missed it. It made me yearn.

So, if I ever produced a greatest hit, here it is. I read this around town, and in a few other towns I was invited to. It was going to be in an anthology that never happened. Maybe I can get a video of an original performance up on here. Until then...

I Want to Be in a Band

I want to be in a band.
I want to be in a beat-box bee-bop band.
I want to look like I’m in a band.
I want to look like I make the
mad crash smash sounds a band makes.

See, bands are cool.
They rocket-rock on stage,
and have super secret jazzy jams
at home,
with the lights lazy low and
the smoke’s craze haze
kicking out the brand ass-spanking new
sweet soft melodies
double deep heart throb harmonies,
then you yank crank the volume
and your feet ground pound and
your head up down,
and you scratchy scream,
“Thank you!  Good night!”
in a British accent, even if you’re not British,
even if you’re from, you know, Wisconsin.

I want to talk like I’m in a band,
Say, “dude’s sup?” and “Yo, a’ight”,
and flip flop my street nouns,
and grab ‘n go my ghetto verbs,
and have cool catch phrases,
someone asks me “How’s it goin’”
I say, “Top ten, baby”
They say, “See you later”
I say, “Keep it flat, man.”
They say “Whassup?”
I say “Don’t touch that dial.”

I want to eat like I’m in a band,
lazy late morning room service tacos,
late night low-life all you can eat buffets,
and I’ll hire a dude,
and whenever I say, “I want pizza!”
he’ll get me a pizza,
and whenever I say, “This pizza shit tastes like shit,”
and throw it against wall,
he’ll peppy pick it up
and happy haul his ass
to get me some
good god damn buffalo wings.

I want to sleep like I’m in a band,
I want to crash bash on my pillow,
grab my rock and roll teddy bear,
and say, “Man, I am so fucked up!”
I want to wake up like I’m in a band,
see a disk-spinnin, ass-kickin tattoo on my arm
and say “Where the hell did that come from?”
I want to shower like I’m in a band,
brush my teeth like I’m in a band,
I want to read my book like I’m in a band
play Nintendo like I’m in a band,
drive to the show like I’m in band.

And I want to stand on stage with
Dolby whack slammin’ the drums,
Buzz low tonin’ the bass,
Scratch scream strikin’ the guitar
Elwood pop plunkin’ the piano,
and I’ll ting tingle a triangle tirade
and Dolby will
du-du-dun, du-du-du-du-dun-dun,
and Buzz will
bow, bow, bow, bow-bow-bow
and Scratch will
Juh, juh-juh, juh, juh-juh-juh
and Elwood will
pling, plang-plang, pling, pling, plang
and I’ll
ting, ting-ting, ting-ting
and then I’ll change it up
ting-ta-ting-ting, ting-ting-ting
and then I’ll smash my triangle into the amp,
and I’ll crowd surf like I’m in a band,
right out onto the street, where strangers will come up
to me and say, “Are you in band,”
and I’ll say “Double digit”
and they’ll say, “I want to be in band”
and I’ll say “Bands are eight lane.”
Damn, I want to be in a band.

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