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The bathrooms are off to the right, and colored strobe lights play against the wall, occasionally hitting a disco ball hanging on the ceiling at the far end of the bar. When I go back in, the host, a man named Se7en (pronounced of course, Seven), is calling all of the poets who signed up to the VIP room.I have my notebook in one pocket, my beat up red CD player in the other, headphones clamped firmly to my ears, music blaring, as I make my way to the bathroom. But I’m clean, so after I pee, I zip up and stand in front of one of the two mirrors and begin to practice my piece. He runs down the rules of the house for us (“I don’t care about the sign up sheet.If you don’t write, meet the poet outside.”) But sometimes this one goes forgotten until the first poem that really gets people stirred up. The crowd is small, but as Se7en was talking, people trickled in, some signed up to perform, some just sat down and ordered a drink.The crowd is generally genuinely friendly, but they go to a whole other level when the room starts to fill up. I don’t feel that there’s a poet here that’s better than me. There’s something about the soft anonymity of being on stage in front of a dark room full of strangers.(“The views and opinions of the poet are not the views and opinions of Renaissance Entertainment, or Paesano’s Lounge.If a poet say something you don’t agree with, go home, write a poem about it, and come back next Sunday.Then comes the cell phone announcement (“Turn the shit off.



Because Paesano’s is where I can reclaim my self esteem, leaving insecurities and life’s harsh realities behind me.So to hell with whoever fees otherwise, because everybody is brave in a crowd, and there’s not a person in the place who can write like me.It’s my one constant passion, the talent God gave me.In the back, behind the badly positioned stage, and behind an area that has couches and no real purpose, is what is considered the “VIP” room. When I perform, I have a quick pace with a complicated, multi-syllabic rhyme scheme, heavy on alliteration and word play.

In all actuality, it’s just a sitting room dimly lit by cheap, low wattage red bulbs. But the problem is, I don’t know if these people will. I touch on subjects that aren’t common for the poets that take the stage here, subjects that are near to my heart, that I have to confront every day that they just don’t. All of which are reasons I don’t consider what I do spoken word poetry. In fact, in the piece I’m doing tonight, I label my style “spoken word with a rap swagger.” I walk outside and pace in the cold night air, mumbling my piece over and over to myself.

I’ll call you in whatever order I want, so stay close to the stage. We’re dismissed, and he goes out to take the stage. He stands maybe five foot eight to five foot ten, with extremely light brown skin and wild hair that is normally braided, or at least should be.



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