Poem In Progress

mass media uzi suicide
recalling the temper of youth
who done it candle stick in the parlor
recalling my past
I drift in and out and see the attention
in a new direction
quickly high school fame is spent on dynamite
childhood dissolves on ill spent milk money
step on a crack cross the line and do some smack
I stand in the playground
balls gives way to bats that break over heads
and baby dolls collect in used needle wastelands
bulletproof vests of designer colors
where gun toting children miss kisses from mom
I remember thinking
"we're number one" used a different finger
carjacking was used to change a tire
"see you in church" was not a death threat
whistles were for games and not rape
where are the naughty children running sticks across white picket fences
now white fence owners with guns wave goodbye
dogs once fetched the paper, thrown sticks
now seek drugs in middle town middle school lockers
beat your child before the deadbeat divorces you
I cannot fear four feet villains anymore

1995, Ben Bisbee

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We were asked to create a spoken word piece that was reminiscent of slam poetry. It was awkward. I had all these feelings about how '“my” youth and the youth of “today” (aka the mid-90’s) was shockingly different and this was my way of expressing it. I actually remember reading it out loud to the class because it’s written to be angry and messy and anxious, but also I was trying to impart some wit and smart alliteration. Did I succeed? Kinda. I felt stupid, but I did like this piece—especially the second half where I feel like it really builds and cascades verbally. I remember the room was fairly stunned, but not in a thoughtful way, more like when you’re not sure what to say next. And I remember that the room was silent for a bit too long because the Professor was taking notes. And I just said “So yeah, fuck kids.” And she looked up at me and said “Was that part of the poem?” And I said “No.” And everyone laughed. Thank god for a tension break.