Life

So I entered the Toronto Poetry Slam on Saturday. Walking back to my chair I heard all the scores and realized, even though I was the second reader, I was out. My score was 22.8, which is pretty lousy. It's hard to do well when you're reading early on, especially when the one who went right before you did a piece moreorless about the topic you had and was better than you. To me, it's the poetry that matters. It's the passion that matters. I don't care too much. Tonight I wrote a slam piece called "I finished last in the Toronto Poetry Slam." Really, I didn't finish last, but I came close.

Tonight I was at a pub I often go to in my neighbourhood. There are these two guys who are there almost every time drinking shots of tequila talking like Brooklyn mobsters. "Fuck, I bet a hundred bucks on da Niners and they're not doing shit." "So Kanye West's Mom died. It was a facelift or some shit like dat. Serves him right. He's an asshole. Always ranting about George Bush hating black people and how he can't win awards because he's black. Green Day's the only white band to win awards recently Fuck Kanye West." Then they pissed off the guy beside me who I thought was Mediterranean, but was actually East Indian. They kept referring to him as "de guy from Harold and Kumar." Yeah, that's pretty lame. If you're actually there to witness these guys, they're funny with they're obnoxiousness, mainly because they're silly. When they leave, the joint becomes quiet and everyone jokes about them in their best Brooklyn accents.

But I don't think I really need to say, racism ain't cool.