"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.

Slam Poem About Playing Bingo

For the second item in our "Whitest Slam Poems of All Time" series (our first was a slam poem about mailmen), I'd like to present the poem I wrote about playing bingo at the American Legion hall in Eau Claire. This time around, there's also a video of a performance. I'm way hotter now, just so you know.

Bingo

Mary walks in with

her huge blue hair

even bluer this week

like the sky, like the sea,

like the Pepsi can she sets

on the table right next

to a strange new guy

who looks her in the eye

and says, I-24, I-24,

O-67, O-67, B-8, B-8

Now, Mable down the table

really misses her kids,

really misses her husband,

really misses her dog,

really misses her N-42, N-42,

but her kids just live

on the other side of town,

while her husband is buried

seven feet down,

and her dog is at home

chewin on the couch

chewin on the rug,

chewin on the G-57, G-57,

I-19, I-19, O-71

See, Ellen in the corner

is a little less old,

but she’s out to win

and she’s a little bit cold

to the regular crowd

and their I-24, I-24,

B-2, B-2

Vern walks down the aisle

with a bucket and a smile,

tickets for a buck,

you can try your luck

at the bingo night raffle

whose prizes include

O-74, O-74, I-29, I-29

Sittin in the back are

Sara and Jack,

double-fistin beers

with their six year old Ben

who, on his Game Boy, plays

G-65, G-65, B-14, B-14

He’s little bit bored,

and doesn’t understand,

why mom and dad laugh

and shout and holler

when the bingo caller

pulls I-69, I-69

Sittin right up front

are Rose, and Lois,

and Edna, and Jane,

and Evelyn, and Maude,

and these six gals have

coffee every morning,

play bridge every lunch,

play bingo every night,

play church every Sunday,

play grandma every Christmas,

and they really don’t like each other

all that much

but their husbands are boring

and lazy and such

so twice a day

they meet and say

N-35, N-35, G-52, G-52

Everyone smokes and everyone drinks

and everyone checks their

two dozen cards for

regular bingo, crazy tee,

postage stamp,

angle, four corners, little diamond,

big diamond, six pack, eight pack,

and blackout,

some might win,

and everyone loses

at least once each night,

and when someone shouts bingo,

they clear their cards and say

B-4, B-4, N-37, N-37

So I walk in

buy one single card

sit by myself,

look really hard,

check the free space

shout bingo!

And the glares shoot up

from surly old crowd,

I get my prize,

look at the ground,

and say,

I guess I just don’t talk Bingo speak.

Another English Teacher Uses This IN CLASS...

...which I believe makes me a real author. Well, real-ish. This originally appeared in Volume One, back before there was much direction on what the opening letter should look like. And, we moved out of this house seven years after this letter, because we needed more space. Psychic.


July, 2005
To my lovely new house, on our one month anniversary:

            One month ago, my wife and I hopped aboard the bloating real estate bubble and purchased you, our own little chunk of wood, linoleum, and various piping.  We perused about twelve properties in our search for “the one,” our soul-home, the place where we plan to grow old together, at least for five to seven years, at which point whatever future children we may have will need more space.  Despite this early playing of the field, we knew all along you would be the one for us, with your pedestal sink and enormous upstairs master bedroom.  I know it must have been hard, house, watching us fondling the cabinets and caressing the window sills of all those other places, but it doesn’t matter any more, baby.  We are calling you home.

            I have to say, I’ve never been with a dwelling that has had so much storage space.  I love that you’re still surprising us with drawers, cabinets, shelves, cubbies, and corners, just waiting to hold the stuff we are too lazy to unpack.  Just the other day, I was staring at the space behind your furnace, and I thought, “That would be an awesome place to put our coolers!”  And it was awesome.  I still adore your wood floors and your brand new appliances, the deep colors of your walls and your gorgeous mature trees.

            But let’s be honest, housey, it hasn’t all been giant living room windows and a well-maintained furnace.  Our box spring wouldn’t fit up the stairwell to that impressively large master bedroom.  We changed for you, house, we went right out and bought a split queen-size box spring.  And don’t forget about the time your concrete sink in the basement clogged with lint from the washing machine and overflowed, soaking the entire basement.  I’m not saying it’s your fault, but still…  And I hate to bring it up again, but when the tiles above the tub in the bathroom started falling off, I was hurt.  I understand you’re almost fifty-five years old, but seriously, house-muffin, how long can we keep using that excuse?

            I’m not being fair, house.  I’m not perfect either.  I mangled some of the hostas near your sidewalk with the lawn mower, and when I fertilized for the first time, I left green stripes through your front yard.  But let’s not focus on the negative.  Let’s focus on growing together.  You let me frost your bathroom windows so people on the sidewalk can’t see me shower, and I’ll replace your broken garage-door-opener remotes.  You keep your twenty-year-old air conditioner running, and I’ll build a stone patio on the north side of your garage with those little path lights you like and everything.  You remember how we had that outlet installed in your bathroom?  That’s what I’m willing to do for you, homey-kins.  That outlet is a token of our unconditional house-love.

            So, I know it’s only been a month, but I think we’ll work out great.  I know there are some obstacles ahead, like shoveling snow off of your entire corner lot and learning to use a weed-whacker.  But any day now, the people that drive by will stop staring at the “new neighbors” and my wife and I will finally decide what color to paint the bedroom/office.  Housey-poo, you’re my little castle forever, at least until we need more space.

Shelter and running water always,

Eric

A Teaching Slam Poem

There are plenty of well-shared performance pieces about teaching. Compared to Taylor Mali or someone like that, I have little business try to capture teaching in poetry. Should probably just stick to mailmen and graham crackers (that one's coming soon, hold on.) But, here is one anyway.

The Things That I Do That Are Weird

The bell rang loud for fifth period

and as the kids ran for their seats

to avoid the almighty tardy

I heard a little squeak

like someone sat on a mouse

or startled a doggie chew toy

and I said, Was that a sneeze?

And this girl in the back

with her hand over nose

her face got all red

and she said, yeah,

that’s how I sneeze

it’s one of the things that I do that are weird

Oh no.  The things that we do that are weird?

We’re not keeping score are we?

The things that I do that are weird

Because one time I was hungry for salty and sweet

with severely limited resources so I ended up

eating ketchup on a granola bar

The things that I do that are weird

Sometimes at the store I hold bottle of conditioner

up to my ear to hear what Target sounds like through White Rain

If bars served Kool-Aid I’d probably never drink beer again

Those are the things that I do that are weird.

The thing that I do that’s the weirdest is that I’m standing at the front of the room as a role model for all these kids.

Weird.

Third period rolled around a couple of days later

all the sophomores were small group working on some sort of paper

and in between questions about points and semi-colons

I walked over the pencil sharpener on the wall

and started flicking the handle so it spun around

and a girl said,

Mr. Rasmussen, what are you doing?

You can’t ever accuse us of having ADD again,

and I said something dumb like, I just like spinny things

and she said

You’re weird

And I thought, you don’t know half of the things that I do that are weird

I have a blankie

and when I was seven and my dad wanted me to get rid of it and he jokingly asked if I was going to take it to bed with my wife someday

and now I know the answer is yes.

The things that I do that are weird

I own all the seasons of Saved by the Bell on DVD because I asked for them as presents from friends.

The things that I do that are weird

That rubbery glue they use to stick cards and stuff in magazines?  I play with that shit for hours.

The things that I do that are weird are not half as weird as the guy trusted me with a 106 fifteen year olds.

That’s weird.

And now every time I eat Miracle Whip out of the jar with my finger

and every time I get really emotional singing the theme from the Golden Girls

and every time I talk to myself in an Indian accent about which socks I’m going to wear or what I all have to do before I go the bathroom or how good I think I look standing in front of the mirror

all I can think of is that girl who sits off to the side in first hour saying

Those things that you do?  They’re weird?

Like teaching?  The things that I do that are weird make that thing that I do weird.