Saturday, August 27, 2011

Satia Sampler Saturday

This has actually been a productive week for me.  I was asked to write a piece for another person's blog quite some time ago and finally pulled it together.  I wrote content for the upcoming issue of the Wellness & Writing Connections newsletter.  I wrote some poems and I'm thinking of giving myself a new writing challenge for September.  Anyway, I threw together a rough draft of a spoken word piece.  I say "rough" to emphasize that I haven't read this aloud to work out the kinks so there may be points where it's off.  I also don't think that my allusions are obvious enough and most people reading/hearing it wouldn't catch enough of the implications.  So definitely a first draft vision in need of revision.  Enjoy!

I’m hearing it again, that same ca-ca-cadence,
unbreaking away from how we’ve been saying things for more twenty years.
The coming and pound of typical syncopation where the message sounds the same,
although the words are different, finding familiar rhymes and unshocking value
in words like “fuck” and “cunt" and shouting them out louder than loud
because we want to be heard because we believe we have something to say.

Really, what’s the point if we say it the same way anyway?
The hews and cries that stand up at the mic offer nothing new.
This is not jazz.
This is not another renaissance.
This is not some new beat.
This is the same song with
Different lyrics but, like disco,
Beating the same damn beat
Droning the same angst to the same drum line
Damning then hip hopping nowhere
To the same tired ca-ca-cadence.

Can’t you feel it?
The beats turn away tired as we all dance to the same beat so mindlessly,
Shouting approbation for meaningless oration about someone’s aggravation
Because we all have reason to be angry
Because we’re white or not, homo or straight or none of the above,
Love our leaders, hate our leaders, wish there were more readers,
Calling everyone else another bottom feeder when we feed everyone
The same rhythm with the same rhyme claiming its our line.
Anger itself is so soulless but let the open mic stand and some host will soon introduce
Yet another angry young/old man/woman ready to shout rage outrageously with tired rhymes
Like "outrageously outraged" which should make us rage but merely express our age.

Isn’t twenty years long enough for something new to be borne?
Don’t you long to hear a different rhyme and rhythm beat?
Or are you happy strutting your dance to the same tired cadence?

When will the door slam shut until something new is heard?

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