Love Beats Rhymes Page #5

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your assignment and the reading?

Yes?

I did the reading. I just didn't

have time to finish the assignment.

I only had a few hours.

Oh.

Try to keep up.

As part of your curriculum,

you are expected to attend

at least one of Mr. Morris'

weekly slam poetry field trips.

Mr. Morris,

where is it this week?

This week, guys, we're gonna be

heading to the Nuyorican poetry slam.

Welcome to the house

Miguel Algarin built.

A mix of Nuyorican soul

and neighborhood hustle.

Here, you can learn

your love's truest name

and claim the reign to victory.

Here, you get to be whoever

you want to be. And more.

Welcome to the house of smooth

lyrics and slam poetry.

Slick talk and real heartbeats.

Here time stands still.

The vibe tonight, we takin'

it higher than we ever been.

Our first poet, Adam Falkner.

I can't believe all these

people are here for poetry.

The whitest thing. Owning your

own white guilt isn't cool yet.

Listen, I'd like to introduce

two of my new students.

This is coco.

Hi.

Hey. How you doin'?

I'm well, thank you.

Nice to meet you.

And this is Julie.

- How you doin', Julie?

- Hi.

This right here, guys,

is the man. Coltrane.

He's a pillar of New

York's poetry community.

And he knows

professor Dixon pretty well.

Has she made your

life miserable, yet?

I see you know her very well.

Yes, very, very well.

She's my wife.

Well, I'm sorry to hear that.

Of all the street compliments

I get walking down the street

"Ga gless you, ma"

is my favorite.

So what's your thing?

She's a rapper that

doesn't like poetry.

Oh, come on.

Perfect. Perfect, coco.

Because you're gonna be a judge.

No.

Yes.

You can do it, you can do it. Don't

worry about it. You got taste?

Mmm.

All right, great.

Clip the keratin armor

until your nails are slick.

Keep each operation uniform.

Rank, file, top, sides.

Push back the enemy cuticles

with oil and lotion.

The chemical arsenal of a

Vietnamese manicurist named Chien.

A name that means "war."

Even oceans away, she carries

the war like a name.

She's bent over,

scrubbing your fingers.

The cuticle foliage remind her

of slaughtered soldiers, her dead

father, her sister buried alive.

"Tell me what color

you like."

Judges,

let me see those scorecards.

We got an 8.5.

A 9.5.

I see a 10 over there.

We got a 7 right here.

Uh, okay.

Damn!

People take this seriously.

Now perhaps I should

start this poem

by informing you

that I am bilingual.

That the queen's English that I

speak so eloquently before you now

is not my first language, no.

My grandmother

never used such diction

when she spoke me up in the welfare

line amongst the other dwellers.

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