The sound of 200 poets, slamming

John Kelso, 08-21-1998.

I was disappointed at the opening ceremonies of the ninth annual National Poetry Slam Wednesday afternoon at the Electric Lounge.

More than 200 poets are in town for this four-day event. And not one of these clowns recited my favorite poem.

The work tells the amazing story of Bill Blass, a part of whose anatomy is made out of brass, which, when clanged together, plays Stormy Weather, accompanied by a spectacular meteorological phenomenon.

You'd think at least one of the wordsmiths gathered in Austin for this poetry competition would have read this petunia. Although I'll admit some of their literary efforts were playing in the same ballpark.

The slam's opening gathering featured teams of poets from such places as Los Angeles, Detroit and Boston performing one-minute bits that were part poetry, part senior class skit.

I was impressed by the group from Albuquerque, who did a sendup of that obnoxiously chirpy reggae song, ``Don't Worry. Be Happy.''

Dig these lyrics, sung on stage by a guy in dreadlocks:

``If someone gives you too much sass.

``Pick up a bat and beat their a--.

``Don't worry. Be happy."

These poetry slams involve teams of poets competing in the shouted word, I mean spoken word. Previously, I had avoided these affairs, fearing they'd be stuffy. Hah. This four-day event figures to be like a Shriners' convention with 50-cent words.

A long-haired, bombastic-voiced, blocky guy named Wammo got on stage and gave the ``invocation.'' This began with Wammo, of Austin, telling the visiting poets when the bars close -- critical information.

``Before we get started, last call in bars is at 2, the stores stop selling beer at midnight, you can only buy liquor in liquor stores, and liquor stores stop selling at 9,'' Wammo announced to the poets. Then Wammo explained he was giving out this information because he didn't want his fellow poets running out of whiskey and bumming his.

So where are the poets staying while they are here?

``I don't have any idea, but I'm sure there's a back yard filled with somebody's tents,'' joked Tony Gallucci, a school teacher/poet from Kerrville. Then again, maybe some of them are at the Daze Inn. Seriously, these poets have taken over a motel -- ON SOUTH CONGRESS.

Swell. That's all we need. A bunch of hooker haikus.

Inside the Electric Lounge, it looked like visiting day at the county jail. There was the Rev. Bart, of the Church of the Divine Annihilation in Houston, with APOCALYPSE tattooed festively across his back. His introductory poem was: ``Napalm: Because immolation is the sincerest form of flattery.'' Don't lend this guy your Bic

On a lighter note, Albuquerque poet Matthew John Conley carried a plush toy pink bunny.

``He's our team mascot,'' explained Conley, dressed in garage sale- quality Bermuda shorts. ``His name is Bunny Kravitz. He's a gin-drinking, womanizing, bar-fighting, button-pushing, bad a-- who keeps us in trouble."

So it should be a fun week. Just check your back yard occasionally for bedrolls.

John Kelso writes a humor column on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. He can be reached at 445-3606 or at jkelso@statesman.com.

Copyright © 1998, The Austin American-Statesman