Slaughter of the Lambs, Rough Draft

I'm apolitical. I'm so apolitical I do not even like to discuss what makes me apolitical. I suppose I see it as a hyperactive shell game, but that's besides the point. I hate political "poets", most of whom are rappers with a slightly larger vocabulary. A place like the Nuyorican Poets Cafe crawls with hateful, left-wing posers, hate-whitey types with Afros and Army jackets; frauds living in an outdated 1960s paradigm; unoriginal hacks who write the same preaching to the choir doggerel over and over again; any poem that praises the oppressed black or brown people is met with a lazy "that's deep." When I was in a bad mood I would go to places like Nuyoricans and read spoken-word pieces to the right of Ann Coulter and Adolf Hitler. I wrote pieces in praise of traditional values and Eurocentricism while lampooning revered figures like Martin Luther King and Malcolm X. And why not? These people were always invoking Freedom of Speech! I was merely exposing their hypocrisy. Sometimes these "hippies" became violent and glass bottles would fly at my head. I learned to duck. Every once in a while a true hippie - some old, toothless East Village type - would approach me and say: "Way to go, man! You're giving them a taste of their own medicine!" Not that I'm some kind of right-winger, some kind of Rush Limbaugh jerk. As I said, I'm apolitical. I just don't like crybabies like Junot Diaz. "Oh, boo-hoo, boo-hoo! Christopher Columbus! Oh, boo-hoo, boo-hoo! Racism! Oh, boo-hoo, boo-hoo! Colonialism! Oh, boo-hoo, boo-hoo!" Get a life already and worry about yourself you neo-Puritan hatemongers. Every group has had a rough shake at one time or another and, what, the life of every white person is supposed to be the life of Reilly? White people struggle and have nothing too. So boo-hoo, boo-hoo! When I was in a good mood I would go there and read pieces about how there is nothing more important than one's own individuality and subjective will, how everyone must stay true to one's own self and not get caught in any crowds, groups, movements or isms. These pieces were not popular either (consider that I was reading them in front of a bunch of followers), but at least those performances did not end in violence. On Friday night the Nuyorican poets cafe held an open slam. For those of you who don't know what a slam is, allow me to explain: scorecards (like those used in an Olympic diving match) are handed out to random audience members. Poets will take to the stage and perform spoken-word pieces. At the conclusion of each piece, the audience members with the cards rate the piece and those with the highest scores move on to the next round until a winner is declared. In short, a simple concept and an example of democracy at its worst. After all, what does the average joker on the street know about poetry? I, of course, was knocked out in the first round. I read a fairly innocuous piece, Nietzschean-inspired spoken-word (now there's a concept) about the struggle of the individual against the herd and the eternal glorification of the subjective will. Of course, a bunch of non-individuals are going to have a natural hostility toward anything that celebrates individuality. The guy following me was a short little white guy with long blonde hair in a ponytail. "Lamb" was his stage name. What was his last name, Chop? Was he a smelly little hand-puppet made from a sock? Lamb? What kind of a stage name is Lamb. My stage name would at least be "Will the Butcher" or "Will the Thrill Who Loves to Kill" or at least "Baby-Slaughterer" or "The Rapist of Virgins" - you know, something to scare and unnerve the opponent! But Lamb? To me Lambs are meek little creatures made to be slaughtered, butchered and eaten! That dirty Jewish carpenter who hated everything good (aka Jesus Christ) was the Lamb! "Where are you from?" Someone in the audience asked Lamb. "Union Square." Oh, he was certainly not paying for that apartment (this nigga wasn't even shaving his downy white beard yet.) It's very easy to be a pussyshit when you've never had to worry about yourself! Lamb went up there and read a "preaching to the choir" piece about George W. Bush and his imperialist wars of aggression. Now, like I said, I do not care to comment on politics, but - this guy was reading a poem that hundreds of other Nuyorican poets had performed. It was the same poem by different authors. The same poem over and over and over again. George W. Bush, corporations, Iraq, oil, etc..., etc... That's not art! That's pontificating on the same thing over and over and over again. If you're going to criticize Bush or anyone else at least find a fresh angle. But to read the same piece over and over and over again... His George W. Bush poem was, of course, a huge hit and he was promoted to the next round. Damn Lamb! He was a lamb? Well, I was a wolf! And all I wanted to do was rip into him with my canines and watch his lily-white lamb ass bleed all over the pure white snow. Blood all over the snow, melting it as the lamb bleats from fear and pain! Bleh! Bleh! Help me! I'm just a little lamb! Bleh! The next round he read a piece about how much he hurts and suffers when he sees the homeless and how he wanted to devote his life to helping the less fortunate. This, of course, promoted him to the third and final round. What a lack of artistic integrity. Lamb was nothing but a white guy cheating a bunch of blacks and Puerto Ricans by telling them what they wanted to hear! If I told him this he would never believe me! Oh, the irony. Especially considering that his best was yet to come!