blueprints

The Second Throat | 19
the Mill, were re-created in the film The Joker Is Wild, starring Frank
Sinatra.
That’s the true stuff. But I also I heard, over and over again, with no
proof whatsoever, that Al Capone had blasted a piano player off his bench
because a tune was not to his liking. I loved that story because it fit so perfectly
with the spirit of the slam: entertain me, or your time in the spotlight
is short.
But the mess didn’t begin at the Mill. The foundation for the slam was
a series at the old Get Me High Lounge, where Marc founded a poetry
reading series in 1984. Wanting to avoid the owl-rimmed glasses, tweed
jacket, and relentless droning of the academic stage and the drunken spittle
of the typical barroom bard, Marc emphasized performance and the capture
of audience. By the time he was approached by Dave Jemilo, the Green
Mill’s owner, two years later—to help inject a bit of sizzle into slow Sunday
nights—the ex-construction worker had the blueprint. Stanzas and spirits
were a potent mix. Obstinate judges and teeny cash prizes made things
interesting. The word slam sounded brisk, relentless, and final, something
that couldn’t be argued with. The limelight felt great on Marc’s skin. A star
was born. A phenomenon found root.
Marc presided over the buzz like a blade-edged Svengali. He decided
who was legit, who wore the fever like a cloak, and who were there just to
beef up their social circle, drink heavily, and talk in the back of the bar
while poets were onstage. He never apologized for running the world
inside the threshold of the Mill. Often he was gruff and unreadable. He was
stubborn. He was frequently brilliant. At the risk of being ostracized by
black folks and ridiculed by white ones, I never told anyone what an
astounding presence he was/is in my life. I’d never met anyone so selfishly
and selflessly fueled by language and ego. I shamelessly clamored for a spot
under his wing, where I wrote like a woman possessed, learned how to
control any room with words, and inherited a bit of his swagger and arrogance—just
enough to grow the thick skin needed to face a restless room
of strangers every week.
There are two types of people in the world. The first are people who
try the slam once and are absolutely horrified from the moment they take
the stage. They leave skid marks running away from the experience. They
forget that it’s a crapshoot, that the judges’ qualifications are simply (a) they
are in the room, and (b) they are willing to be judges. From the time they
skedaddle from the spotlight, these folks are content to watch the chaos