I Can't Write a Slam Poem

I met a man one day
who said he’d never been
to the ocean
Some people can’t ride bicycles
Follow the leader
Or capture sensation
Some people can’t
Conjure up the fantastic
Or
Build a skyscraper of emotion and
Passionate artistry
Bricks of
Brain waste
Falling out around the ears
Like
Expendable
stuff
And I can’t write a slam poem

I can’t write a slam poem
because
I don’t have anything to say
about race
religion
pol
i
tics
and I haven’t learned how to
wave my arms around
like a windmill
make hand signs
like a deaf man
to em
pha
cize
my every point
throw my fingers in the air
coming up with new ways to count of the three two ones and the one two threes of an algebraically oriented society of ones and zeros,
binary collapsing on my
lungs
getting harder
to
breathe because for every
right there’s a
wrong and
everybody’s talking about black and white like
there’s some sort of
easy line drawn
in the dirt
in the dirt
in the dirt I saw an old man lie down to sleep
never to wake up again
and how do I know?
Because the blood is boiling and the people are tearing at the
Hearts of their brothers and friends and coworkers and partners in crime and business
and lovers fight about who’s right while others stand in the light with black suits tight giving children a fright as they whisper goodnight to the last dream of mankind
and soldiers are dying in foreign lands
as the shreds of truth float away in the wind
and how can a guy like me hope to win
in a battle of the wits as we turn to the pen
What’s privilege?
We live our lives of comfort as each day brings new horrors to the things we used to call people
And I can’t write a slam poem because I’ve got nothing to say
About race
Religion
Or pol
I
tics