Poetry Slam

Last night I scuttled on down to the Brooklyn Brainery for a Blackout Poetry class. What’s Blackout Poetry? Unfortunately, it’s not writing haiku’s after nine shots of vodka. To do Blackout Poetry you simply need to know how to molest a newspaper article with a Sharpie until you’re left with your favorite words that theoretically work together as a poem.

A class that cynic in me predicted would be overwhelmingly lame turned out to be wonderfully inspiring. Despite the influx of inspiration most of my poems were shit with the exception of my inaugural one (blame it on beginner’s luck and the fact that everyone else sucked the first time).

Listening was a rare, brightly feathered bird on my Brooklyn fire escape.

New York is loopy,

Fragmented, kaleidoscopic, sublime, funny and chaotic.

A state of mind.

Particular and peculiar, accessible, niche, avant-garde.

Maybe it’s because growing up in an almost pop-music backward glance keeps stories nostalgic,

Unnerving, overly revealing, emotionally raw,

Sorrowful, hysterical, engaging, relentlessly weird, alienating.

Take down the wall of achy violins, tumbling percussion, virtuosity

Spacious and intimate traditions.

Never.

To read significantly better Blackout Poetry please refer to the master, Austin Kleon.

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