Slam The Poets Night.

1

The house was packed on open mic night. The designated slam poet, Red Shibata, didn't show, as he was prone to do. I sat at the corner end of the bar with my head down, working on a bowl of pretzels while washing it down with a thick draft beer, but somehow the owner, Ken, spotted me. I suppose he was trying to save his ass from the patrons who were prepared to pounce on him. Even the doormen who hadn't been paid for the past couple of nights appeared as if they were going to turn a blind eye to the mob's intentions.

"We've got a special guest in the audience who can surely make up for Red's absence! He's here tonight, let's cheer him on so he'll come up!" He pointed at me, putting me on the spot with no way out. If I didn't do anything, the crowd would have torn both of us apart. I made a mental note to kick him in the nuts after this was over. 

"Kamuela Sam!"

Fucking asshole. 

The applause and the cheers went up, followed by a few no ways and what the hells. I took the stage and stood behind the microphone. Literally, it was standing-room-only, so much for the fire code. 

"This is not a Slam Poem, it's a Slam of life. My life. I was five years old when my mother and my siblings were watching a baseball game at Kamāmalu Park. We didn't even know who the teams were; it was something we did at my mother's whim. She made us some sandwiches, bought us cans of juice, and we all drove down to the park, where we sat and observed the game. About the fifth inning, my mother put down her can of juice, walked across the field, and got into a waiting car with a man we'd never seen before. The car drove off with my mother in it, and we never saw her again. To save you all the details, our grandparents took us in, but it was my oldest brother who raised us. I mean, our grandparents too, but mainly our older brother. We grew up great, perfectly normal, with no real issues. I think it's because my brother made it a point to tell us exactly what happened, while also assuring us that none of what our mother did to us was our fault."

"What about your father?" Someone in the audience asked.

I paused for a second because I had to think about it. "Our real father was busy with his new life with his second wife. Was he all of a sudden going to take the seven of us in? In his day, he was home long enough to make the four of us, but not long enough to hang around and be a father. When this thing happened that I just told you all about? It was during my mom's second marriage. Our stepfather had mental challenges to the point where my mother couldn't breathe, so when she finally came up for air, that's when she left. Remembering it now, it's obvious that she'd arranged to be picked up at the park by whoever that man was...and she left." 

Dead quiet permeated the bar, save for the sound of the bartender pouring whiskey into a shot glass. 

"It's slam poetry night, and I'm slamming the shit out of my life. My siblings and I didn't realize what was going on until long after our mother was gone, and the parking lot began to empty. That's when we all broke down. While we cried, my brother had my oldest sister watch us while he walked to our grandparents' house to tell them what happened. My brother couldn't drive us there because our mother had the car keys in her pocket...son of a bitch."

I left the stage and went back to my spot at the corner of the bar, munching more pretzels and washing down more draft. It was only then that the establishment erupted with wild aplomb. I waved and went back to minding my own business. Ken took the cue and went to the mic. "Well, it IS open mic night, so if anybody has a poem they wanna slam, you got five minutes!"

2

The deafening din of excitement made my ears ring, which was my cue to leave. I didn't mind if no one gave a shit if I was coming or going. Tito, the head doorman, gave me a supportive pat on my shoulder as I exited the establishment. "Thanks for coming through for us, uncle. You saved our asses."

"No worries, young brother," I smiled. "Have a good night!"

I'd only managed to depress the button on my key fob to get my car door open when I heard a voice from behind me. 

"Uncle! Uncle! Uncle, hold up!" I turned slightly to see a young Polynesian man in his early to mid-thirties trotting up to me. "I just wanted to say that was amazing! That wasn't even a slam, but you killed it! I can only imagine what it must be like if you did an actual slam! My mom left us, too, when we were young. Almost the same thing, she just took off with some guy!"

I opened the door, let myself into my car, and started it up while closing the door. I didn't bother to roll the window down; I just smiled, waved, and drove out of the parking lot. A second later, I made a U-turn and went back. The young Polynesian man was halfway back to the bar when I drove up and cut him off. The window went down, and I motioned for him to come over.

"My mother must have realized or thought at some point that after having seven kids, the life she felt she deserved had passed her by. Who suffered for that? We did, my brothers and sisters. Meeting whoever that guy was, she must have seen that as her last chance for her happiness, and that it would never come again. So she bolted. You know how they say that the grass is always greener on the other side?"

The young Polynesian man nodded. "Yeah, I've heard that."

"On either side of the fence, the grass is the same color," I smiled. "That old woman went looking for something she already had. By the time she realized that, it was probably too late. She was already on the other side."

"Thank you, uncle," he cried.

"Don't blame yourself for something that was never your fault, young brother," I said. "Really think about that and let it heal you and your siblings."

That was my good deed for the night. There needn't be anymore. Why push the envelope after all?

3

The building I live in was possibly built when elevators were not considered a convenience for whoever the owners knew would live in the complex. Rather, they felt it was sensible for tenants like me to walk up three flights of stairs. I mean, considering the housing crisis in Hawai'i, one would be inclined not to complain, but for each step I take to get to my apartment on the top floor, I'm complaining.

***

My phone keeps ringing long after I've let myself in and am sitting on my carpeted floor with my back against the wall. I've got no furniture because I don't see the need for it since I live on my own. I've got plastic forks, paper plates, and napkins. I eat out for the most part, but I do have a few items in my fridge. I don't keep anything in the cupboards in case of bugs. The call finally goes to voicemail. It's yet another young up-and-comer who needs help or advice with their slam poetry, which, in code, means I have to sit there and listen to their delivery, and I don't want to. I'm not anti-slam, I'm anti-psychic fall out is what I am. Artists don't want to just express and emote their art; they want it to encompass everything and everyone in one fell swoop. I don't want to be encompassed in massaging someone's damaged, traumatized ego. So, I don't return the calls. 

***

On one of my rare nights off, I came home from the grocery store to find a flyer taped to my door. Poetry Slam! $1,500 cash prize to the poet who can slam on the fly! There was a yellow sticky note on the bottom of the flyer from Ken.

"Kamuela, please come! On the house!"

There I was an hour and a half later, sitting in the corner at the end of the bar with potential slam poets and their friends standing in front of me. I didn't care if I could see the stage or not; just listening to the presentations was sufficient. A few of the contestants were passable; everybody else was just horrible. This went on for a solid hour and ten minutes. As the owner called for a ten-minute break to tally all the points and determine the sole winner for the evening, a murmur went through the crowd, then excited clapping and fan-girl screams rose. It was Red Shibata, demanding to be let into the contest at the very last minute. Ken knew very well that allowing Red to enter would be unfair to all the other contestants who had just given their all. Besides, Red is a professional slam poet who travels all around the nation, including Japan and Korea. Ken got on the microphone and feigned having no choice but to let Red enter the contest under all the pressure from Red's fans. The other contestants smelled a setup, as did the audience, and they weren't having it. I got up from where I was sitting and pushed my way to the stage, climbed on, and grabbed the microphone from the owner. 

"If Red is entering, then I'm entering too," I insisted.

"You ain't no Slam Poet!" Red scoffed while giving me the once-over.

"And you're no amateur, and yet here you are, a professionally paid slam poet, trying to push your way into an amateur contest." I looked Red straight in the eye and then turned to the crowd. "What about it?"

Red had no choice but to back down, and the $1,500 cash prize went to Azalea Moldonado from Waipahu. Her on-the-spot, straight-off-the-cuff slam poetry was about Red Vines, crossing lines, confusing times, and knowing what's yours is not mine. Ticket fines, wrinkled lines, intertwine on my face like a felonious crime. It's like a shoe shine at the five-and-dime. That old black man worked the Wichita line and could play a guitar like a finely poured wine. Let that breathe because its beauty is sublime like a lime in a coconut. You drink a bowl of it, and ease your mind while you chew on that Red Vine with intricately designed intersecting lines on a straight and narrow highway. It's time to mind my own business, don't worry cause on this journey, I'll be just fine. I slam poetry like this all the time, line after line, after line, after muthafuckin' line.

4

Needless to say, Red Shibata was pissed. Which probably explains why he was waiting at my car after the establishment closed. He was all puffed up and pacing back and forth while his two slam poet underlings mean-mugged me, as if they were going to do something harmful, like beat me up with their slam poetry, line by line. Red marched toward me with his two fingers pointing in my direction. His facial expression said he was about to spit some slam, but I beat him to it. I kicked him in his nuts and dropped him. His underlings stood there with their mouths agape, eyes wide, slowly shaking from head to toe. I kicked Red in the nuts a second time and then slowly walked toward them. One ran off toward Kalākaua Avenue. The other one who ran past me was close enough so I could grab a handful of his gelled hair and yank him down to the pavement. He hit the back of his head hard and began rolling to his right and his left while holding on to his skull. He was already in a lot of pain; kicking him in the nuts, too, was pointless. 

Ken came fast, walking across the parking lot without the doormen behind him. "Oooooh Kamuela! You didn't have to do that!"

"I didn't do anything; they were blocking me from getting into my car, so I had to defend myself," I countered. 

Ken looked stressed out, like he was going to have a heart attack. "What am I going to do now?"

"I don't understand why you were willing to do what you just did, Ken?" I waved him off and got in my car. As I attempted to drive away, Ken came walking toward my driver's side.

"Kamuela, Red is my sister's son, and they are having a hard time." He pleaded. "It's my fault as his uncle; I spoil him too much."

"I don't wanna know, Ken." I drove off to the end of the parking lot and turned right on Kalākaua.

Of course, Ken convinced Red to take me to court for assault. Considering the circumstances, I got off with self-defense. I was asked if I wanted to press charges against Red, but I said no. I didn't want to create a vicious circle. I understood that Ken's sister was having a hard time, but rigging a contest so Red would win the $1,500 prize? That's just making things worse. Why didn't Ken just give the money to his sister? Turns out that the contest was Red's idea. It was all about his ego.

5

It's a month later, and I was soured on the whole Slam Poetry scene. I was at Foodland earlier today. I got some Poi, shoyu poke, some pork lau lau, natto, and a case of mango peach tea. I walked the grocery cart to my car and opened the trunk, where I placed the items I purchased. After closing it, I walked back to the cart rack, where a little pudgy Hawaiian boy waited for me. He wore a dry-fit shirt, basketball shorts, and rubber slippers.

"Uncle," he stepped up to me and put his hand on my side. "Can I read you my poem?"

I looked back at where my car was parked, and back at the little Hawaiian boy. I put my hand on his shoulder, indicating that we shouldn't block people trying to get to or return their grocery carts. "Sure," I said as I moved both of us to one side. "Do you have it with you?"

He nodded and reached into his shorts pocket and removed a piece of paper that had been folded over a few times. Carefully opening everything, I could see the ink writing on the blue-dotted lines across the paper. I smiled because his poem was handwritten, not printed from a computer. With the paper opened in front of him, he glanced at me, looked at his paper, and took a deep breath.

I wish I had a house, even if it was a shoe. 

At least my 'ohana can live in it cause at least it would be brand new.

I wish I had a house, and not a car or a tent.

We are living without water or electricity

But I would give anything to pay rent.

I wish I had a yard, and not a beach or a park.

So my 'ohana would not have to be afraid of

police kicking us out in the dark.

I wish I had a smile for my Mom and my Dad,

I hear them cry every night, for the stuff they wish

we could have.

I wish I had a house so the kids at school couldn't tease me anymore.

I feel hilahila when they see me in the store.

I wish, I wish, I wish three times, I had a house.

Just then, a twenty-something-year-old Hawaiian girl comes and pulls the little Hawaiian boy away from me and apologizes. "I'm sorry, my son saw you from across the parking lot, and he wanted to read his poem to you. I told him not to bother you. Hard head this kid, I tell you. Kainalu, say sorry!"

"No, say sorry," I insisted. "No need to be sorry."

I glanced across the parking lot and saw their car. They were living out of it. The boy's mother saw me looking at their car, too. "Anyway, we have to go."

"Kainalu," I called out as the two began to cross the parking lot. "Can I have your poem?"

He jumped up and down and squealed with excitement. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Mom, he wants my poem!"

I ran up to them and took the paper from Kainalu, and gave him a big hug. "Do you have a cell phone?"

"My mom and dad have one," Kainalu pointed toward their car. 

"Can I meet your Dad?" I asked.

Because Kainalu's father had experience as a laborer and a forklift license, he was able to get a job at the docks. In a short while, they were able to move out of their car and find a nice house to live in. A month after that, I began organizing poetry readings for kids. No prizes, no competition, just sharing poetry, with dinner and a movie to follow. Kainalu thrived and did very well. Sure, kids' poetry is not a slam, but at least it's poetry from the purest source of inspiration.