GRAND FINALE - Verbs on Asphalt

<strong>GRAND</strong>
SLAM
<strong>FINALE</strong>
2000
SLAMbook$3.00
Kirk Nugent, 1999 Nuyorican Grand Slam Champion

Greetings from
City Lights Booksellers and Publishers
San Francisco, California
To the Poets
of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe
<strong>GRAND</strong> SLAM <strong>FINALE</strong>
May your passion and creativity
burn eternally!!!
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Latin Boogaloo.
“An encyclopedic and yet
deftly written study of Puerto
Rican culture and Latino
identity. . . . [This book] helps
define our complexities, tell
our history, and map our
future.”
—Julia Álvarez, author of
How the Garcia Girls Lost
Thier Accents
$17.50 paper
Flores investigates the historical experience of Puerto Ricans in
New York, reflecting their varied areas of cultural expression in the
diaspora against the background of contemporary debates in
Puerto Rico and developments in cultural theory.
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS
columbia.edu/cu/cup 800-944-8648

Photo: Syreeta McFadden
SLAMbook
May 19, 2000
Slambook
The Nuyorican Poets Cafe
2000 Grand Slam Finale Magazine
May 19, 2000
Editor-in-Grief keith roach
Editor-at -Large Syreeta McFadden
Art Director/Photo Editor Clare Ultimo
Publicity Jody Berenblatt
Advertising Director Angeline Jacobs
Cover Photograph Syreeta McFadden
Published exclusively for the Nuyorican
Poets Cafe, NYC, by Clare Ultimo Inc.,
41 Union Square West, New York, NY
10003. For more copies, please call
212-645-7858.
No portion of this magazine may be
reproduced without permission
from the publisher.
© 2000 Clare Ultimo Inc.&
The Nuyorican Poets Cafe
<strong>GRAND</strong>
SLAM
<strong>FINALE</strong>
2000
“ …Quit your dialectic sneakin’
Quit your ethnic Mozambiquen’
Quit your Kerouac techniquin’
Quit your pathetic moral squeakin’
Quit your fucking political shriekin’
Get your ass down here
And do some streakin’
Get the fuck down here
And do some speakin’
So come recite your
Last Mohican
Come on down and light
The beacon
Come on down
To the Nuyorican ”
Excerpt from the
“Theme from the Nuyorican”
by Kevin O’Neill
from the publisher For the past year, I’ve been in the wonderful position of being able to encourage
young photographers who hang around the Cafe. This magazine is a little gift back to them for their tireless snapping and
endless darkroom hours. Their work has truly been a gift to me and to the Cafe.
For those of us who are dedicated to what the Cafe represents, it seems a bit like a force of nature. The Cafe walls listen
patiently, providing the noiseless backdrop for hundreds of scratching pens in the darkness while voices get stronger and
poets go on to make books, Broadway, TV, websites, and (with any luck) money doing the thing they love to do. Who can
tell what will happen?
It’s been a Six Flags for me...walking into the Open Room 7 years ago and staying for the ride of my life. The best part is,
just when I think I’ve got it, the picture changes again. Poets continue to come and go from all over the globe to the
biggest stage in the world; the Cafe remains the foundation of New York Slam Poetry, never lacking for the boldest and
newest voices on the planet. We’re still surprised when our website gets visited regularly by folks in Singapore, Israel,
Germany, Africa etc. etc. but that’s because we still think of this as somebody’s home. (Well it is, but it belongs to more
people now!) Lots of love to Miguel and Lois for growing this out of Miguel’s living room, and to Keith, Carmen, Lanny,
Julio, Pepe and the staff for helping make this work. Stay tuned. We haven’t even gotten warmed up yet. Oh, and a note to
the poets who aren’t in here..we wanted to include everyone who slammed this past year, but that’s 51 Friday nights, and
our picture takers get vacations too. As budget allows, we have plans for more of these (not just for the Grand Slam), so
stick around and you’ll be in the next one.
– clare ultimo
“In the beginning was the word and the word made a world out of
nothing/ From the mouth of an undivided god an undivided syllable came/
it was LOUD in the beginning...(From Bill Gates, the Beast God Warned Us Against by Clare Ultimo)

and this has been a year of
changes, Felice Belle is the
new face of slam on Friday
Night. Celena Glenn has
taken Dot’s spot in the
Wednesday Night Slam Open
and is placing her stamp on
the evening.The slammers
are the new faces out of the
nowhereof that is the point
origin of all Nuyo poets, slammers
and all. This year’s
Grand Slam Finale is the first
one in a few years that will
not bring me butterflies or
whirli-gig.Those things are
now the property of Felice
Belle and I hope she does better
with them than I.
I have had a wonderful ride at
the helm, and some nine
months after jumping off I
look forward to actually feeling
as thought I jumped off
somewhere ago. I might actually
be an unstressed member
of the congregation. It’s
been exhilaration after
epiphany in the unfolding of
new word play and experiment
in baring souls and history.
Pilgrim poets and
sojourns from a page to the
largest stage in the universe.
Then we forget about this
slam...
I have had questions posed
concerning the history of
slam from all over and even
some insistence that it might
be of some importance.
There is in fact a history and
there is, concomitant with
that, sources for those who
really need to know. It might
be enough to say that the idea
WE HAVE MADE IT THROUGH ANOTHER YEAR
Photo: Michael Meyer

OF NUYORICAN SLAMMING
was to prevent a fist fight between two poets.The
crowd has yet to stop braying for the blood of
sentients, and so an event is born.Yeah, slam is
an event. As the crowd goes, maybe so the slam.
The Poetry Slam is a package of memories for those
poets and audience who found out that the winning
and losing are as private as the that
moment of delivery, the communion of artist
and surrender, remembering finally the poems
own insistence and the inevitable letdown of
even great scores.The magic is that we share
something not so easily definable, greater than
the outward trappings of slam. Damn the bloodlust,
once we get past the moment, we realize
what we are sharing.These are personal
moments seeking the contact wherever it is possible,
this is the play of the magical.
Slam is an event, it requires a modicum of production
value, phone calls and hoping, and finally
those willing to play. Be of the play. So Felice’s
job is explained, there is a slam to present,
gather up your poets and light Kevin O’Neill’s
beacon; “quit your political streakin’ get up on
the stage and do some speakin’....come on down
to the Nuyorican”. And here we are, it’s just
another slam, it’s the Grand Slam Finale, and
we gotta get a team together to go to Providence
and slam against 55 other teams...shark bait,
one might say.The Friday night Nuyo slams,
whoever the slam master, are the stuff of legends
and lore.True seekers have spent five dollars
all these years for a full helping of humanity
in all it’s variations, all it’s inventions.
It isn’t always fun. There have been missteps along
the way. Like a New York subway ride, it ain’t
over till it’s over and that is not about when you
get off the train. Sometimes the ride was not
what we visited when we slipped token into turnstile.Turned
love into a cheesy rhyme that
harkens back to a clumsy moment. The judges
just don’t get it sometimes. That is the least of
the worries.What about the poet? What is their
discovery? Do not check your ego at the door, it
is as necessary as the last edit. Check your
heart at the door, make certain that it is not
hurtling down that dark subway tunnel long
after you stepped off the train. Beat with the
rhythm of the diastolic and systolic thump and
rest...and when you have found it, wrap your ego
gently in the heart’s chambers till the trip home
beckons.
There have been accidents aplenty. We have all had
to learn to play again. One sits in the relative
safety of audience whose attention span is relative
to the blood poured on stages of revealing,
sometimes it works out and we secure the grail,
other times it is a failing of heart or will. For
those who choose the calling, the outside chance
is one of ripping of old skin—-slam exalts and
debases. Let audience know this as well.
Sometimes the details get swept up in a glossolalia
of rhyme and tics, and in the last minute
the sharing is obvious.We are with you we have
bent our collective will towards the triumph and
fall. Slam is an event to take along and unwrap
slowly. Unlike the movies, you have been there.
If the apocrypha of the fist fight bears any such
value, if the slam birthing is one to be taken at
face (or any) value, then what of the fights that
happened afterwards. For all disagreements,
there are expectations unfulfilled or over- filled.
What of this book that tells you we have been
here and we have done this or that and that
Felice is calling all aboard for another edition
and all the water under the bridge is just that,
under the bridge.We will do this again next year
I am hopeful that we will have learned enough
again how not to do this of how not to make
more of this than any other Friday night for all
there is to be offered. There are a whole bunch of
slams going on after this. Check all over the
country, all over the world.When you are all
done, don;t forget to light the beacon.
Thanx for coming out y’all. Don’t forget to talk
with a poet or two if you have been touched or
riled, even by something you heard.•
– keith roach, Nuyorican Slammaster

Everyone has something to
say. The Poetry Slam, in all
of it’s guises, has become
one of the singular places
that some everyones have chosen.
On two nights a week at
Nuyo, and a bunch of venues
throughout the US and the
world. Someone once said that
Slam is the death of art. The
increasing participation in
slam suggests otherwise, at
least in this regard. As it was
said before, someone will have
something to say about it.
Even if they have no clue. reg
E. gaines, Nuyorican poet,
recently featured at “Features
shop/Work”, a Nuyorican
reading series says, “most
people who write, can’t say,
most people who say can’t
write.” If there is any mystery
in art, then the continual pronouncements
of it’s demise
suggest that new forms might
continue to emerge. Someone
will have something to say
about that. Therein, again, is
the art of controversy. The origin
of audience.
Grand Slam Finalist Bryonn Bain
But what is a Slam? Felice Belle, a poet and now Slammaster at the
Nuyorican, offers her definition of slam, “Slam is a type of poetry like haiku
are a type of poem. All poems are not haiku. All poetry is not slam. All slam
poets are not poets. I was a poet before I knew what a slam was and will be
a poet if slam was to no longer exist. On some level it’s all semantics, but I
believe that words are power, so I will always claim the plain old ‘poet.’ Slam
is what the poets are saying. That comes from what they are writing.” No one
should think that slam poets are not writing, or that they are not as dedicated
to their work as those who would preserve art. Nothing about the slam is
canned, it is adventure breathing and celebrating exhalation.
Others get on the mic and discover their voice. Jennifer Murphy, a poet
who has participated in Slams at the Café said,“I try to bring in the moments
of life [when I write]. The poem begins to write itself.” Tammy Carr, fresh
from a recent slam, says, “I write from the emotion of some particular time.
I write it and then edit for grammar and structure... I do not sugar coat anything
I have to say.” The poets have participated in an act of discovery while
reading in the slams. “The audience is there and ready to raise it’s own voice
in response to that kind of magic”, Nathan P. , says. There is no suggestion
that slam is the only place where this occurs. That it occurs in the slams is all
that matters.
Slam at Nuyorican is the best example of talented voices crossing all generations
and other barriers to dramatize personal histories and philosophies.
Jamaal St. John say that slam is “a great way to network with other
poets from all across the country and the world... it seems that the slam is
where all the people are.” Celena Glenn came from the world of visual art to
Poetry, where she says,“ I found people with similar backgrounds and struggles
who were my age, performing. The first thing I saw there was this community
thing happening” The slam is not a one time affair for the poets participating.
There are notes to compare, congratulations to offer and accept.
TALKING ABOUT SLAM,
Photo: Syreeta McFadden Photo: Syreeta McFadden
Grand Slam Finalist Jamaal St. John

Grand Slam Finalist Celena Glenn
Slam is a competition. Do not be mistaken,
Poets on that mic are looking to score well.
Audiences come prepared to be rocked,
moved, angered, inspired, and more importantly,
prepared to think. You may not like
what these poets say. You will remember
what these poets say. These poets have
transformed life lessons into words on page
and in your ear. “You may have five judges
who are feeling your three poems on that
particular night, but on another night it may
work differently. It will be someone elses’
night, says Kirk Nugent, a slam champ. Poet
Nathan P. , reflecting on his first time slamming,
said, “I was surprised by the audience’
reaction. It is still surprising and it is
flattering.“
Whoever wins or loses, the audience will
flock to the poets after the event, seeking out
the one who they heard most keenly. The
poets sometimes bring both the beauty and
ugly of this world, and leave that decision to
the collective. Then there are three rounds of
sometimes astonishing word play that ricochet
off exposed brick and bounce back into
your soul. The art of the event, the moment,
is indeed alive. Someone has spoken on this
night in this place and redefined a piece of
the collective scramble for meaning. •
THE DEATH OF ART & OTHER THINGS
Grand Slam Finalist Safahri
Grand Slam Finalist Nathan P.
Photo: Michael Meyer Photo: Syreeta McFadden
Photo: Syreeta McFadden

POETRYFORthePEOPLE
AN INTERVIEW WITH KIRK NUGENT
Activist. Poet. Entrepreneur. Kirk Nugent exploded
on the spoken word scene in 1998. On the advice of
Steve Donaldson of Bogies in New Jersey, Kirk
slammed for the first time at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe
in September 1998. Nine months later Kirk won the
most coveted title of the New York Poetry Scene,
Grand Slam Champion, beating out finalists Stacey
Ann Chin, Dialectic, Felice Belle and Talaam Acey.The
win earned Kirk a spot on the 1999 Nuyorican
National Slam team.
Since then, Kirk has been a full time poet, traveling
throughout the country to perform at various colleges,
universities and venues. As he gained a greater
presence in New York and New Jersey poetry circles,
Kirk decided to pursue poetry and performance full
time. “Once I started reading I decided that this was
what I wanted to do,” Kirk reflects, so I just walked out
of my job. I’ve had enough of building someone else’s
dream, time to put forty hours per week into building
my dreams. I damn near starve[d] to death for two
years, but if I had to do it all over again, I would walk
out just as fast!”
Kirk recalls his ignorance of the sport/art when he
began slamming,“Nuyorican was the first place I ever
slammed. I didn’t even know what a Slam was [at the
time]. Ironically, the first time Kayo (1998 Nuyorican
Grand Slam Champion) heard me, and he predicted
that I would win in ‘99. From my first slam at the
Nuyorican to my last slam in Florida, I slammed for a
total of fourteen months.”
Influenced by hip-hop, interlaced with critical
thought and analysis of life in the land of ill-gotten
opportunity, Kirk Nugent categorizes his poetry as
“The Unpopular Truth.” Taking on issues of racism,
police brutality, media-frenzied politics and community
development, Kirk hopes audiences would get “a
different point of view, a paradigm shift, if you will.
[What] the audience takes from the poem is going to
be in direct relation to their past experience dealing
“when the cops murder me who will fight for justice who will stand
Will you believe their story that I had two guns and a knife when you knew
Will they investigate the evidence for the integrity that it lacked/because you
Breathing While Black!”
with that particular subject, so I try not to preach, just
tell my side of the story.”
Kirk has worked with the National Action Network
Youth Group under the leadership of the Rev. Al
Sharpton. As a poet and activist, Kirk has seen many
problems of leadership and unity within the Black
community, a theme he often addresses in his writing.
I asked him what is vision for his people, the People’s
Poet had this to say, “If only we would realize that our
greatest liability is our inability to unite. If we stop cosigning
our demise, there would be no need for us to
beg a racist Mayor for Justice, Justice would bow at
our feet willingly. That’s what the poem ‘Copout’ was
all about.”
Kirk has been writing for years. Initially like many
other writers, his writing was cathartic, trying “to
relieve personal pain”. He wrote his first poem when
he was 12, about “regretting that I was born, wishing
that I was dead... I shared it with my younger sister
and we both decided that I should rip the piece up for
fear that it might fall into the wrong hands.” Kirk was
born and raised in Kingston, Jamaica and moved to
the US when he was 13. Kirk recalls some of the struggles
and criticism of being an immigrant, as well as
confronting the racial dynamics of the US in one poem
(see inset)
It was Kirk’s 8 year old son, who gave him the title
“The People’s Poet” Kirk gains inspiration from his
son, “He’s the person who taught me how to love
unconditionally.” Other people’s voices through their
life stories and challenges also provide sources of
encouragement. I read a lot of bio[graphies]. John
Johnson, Johnnie Cochran, Les Brown, Frederick
Douglass, I love reading about other people’s struggle.
It makes me realize that regardless of the obstacle,
if I persevere, I will win.”
Reflecting on the past year since the Grand Slam, Kirk
feels that the title has given him more visibility and
led to other opportunities,“After I won the Grand
– From “When the Cops Murder Me” by Kirk Nugent

Photo: Clare Ultimo
Slam Championship people started hearing about me,
but it’s up to you as an individual to exploit your opportunities.
The majority of my opportunities I sought out
myself and with the help of my agent.The Nuyorican is
a stepping stone and will always be my home away
from home. As far as,“Have I grown?” Absolutely! I am
always trying to improve, always trying to move forward.”
What’s next for Kirk Nugent? As founder and CEO of
Ironic Revolutionary Wear, Kirk is preparing to launch
two lines of clothing for men and women for the summer
of 2001. His first book of poetry, “The Unpopular
Truth” is being released today (May 19th) available on
line at www.amazon.com and www.bn.com. In addition,
Kirk will release his sophmore CD in September
of 2000 and will be touring in Europe this summer.
Kirk’s ultimate goal, as an entrepreneur and poet: “In
the next five years ‘The People’s Poet’ as well as ‘Ironic’
will be a household name.”
The People’s Poet is here to stay.You can rest assured
that Kirk’s pen will never run dry. “I’m sure I will grow
as the art evolves, but poetry is something that I would
do for free, it’s just an added blessing that it’s now paying
my bills and taking me all over the world, I guess
that’s the beauty of chasing your dreams.” Well, isn’t
that ironic? • –Syreeta McFadden
up and say ‘Nah man fuck this!’
I was non-violent all my Life?
know they murdered me for
...I try not to preach, just tell
my side of the story.
“
Chicago 1999, the air was filled with excitement
and anticipation. The team consisted of myself,
Faraji Salim, La “Mar” Hill and Talaam Acey, with
Felice Belle as our alternate. This was our first
time slamming on a National level.
The first thing I recall about the Nationals was
just how political everything was. During the
opening ceremonies, the MC made it a point to
announce that he never liked the “New York
Teams”. (keith roach said “the fix is on early this
year...”) The experience of slamming on a National
level nonetheless opened my eyes to how great
the slam community is and gave us a chance to
meet poets that we’d been corresponding with
online. I enjoyed the spirit of the competition, but
it is not something I could see myself doing every
year. Even though one is on stage for only three
minutes a day during the competition, slamming
has the tendency to be emotionally draining and at
times the contestants take the slam too seriously.
We all would like to win, but losing is something
we try to take in stride.
I look forward to coaching the Nuyorican Team
this year, there’s a lot to be learned from past mistakes,
however I can’t see myself involved in the
National Slam for a while. There’s just far too much
politics and not enough poetry.” – Kirk Nugent
Photo: Clare Ultimo
The Nuyorican
1999 National
Slam Team:
From L to R:
Kirk Nugent,
“Mar” Hill,
Faraji Salim,
Taalam Acey.
(not pictured:
Felice Belle,
Alternate)

PHOTOS BY MICHAEL MEYER
Kevin O’Neill
Onome & keith– slam listening
Taalam Acey
Kayo/1998 Grand Slam Champion Spotlighting at the ‘99 Grand Slam
Dot as the Sacrifical Goat/’99 Grand Slam
Pablo Rosenbluth

keith hosting the ‘99 Grand Slam
Felice Belle reading at the 1999 Nuyorican Grand Slam
Raised in Auburn, Maine,
and soon to be living in
Brooklyn, Michael Meyer has
been photographing at the
Nuyorican for the past two
years. He is a photography
major at New York University
where he is also involved
with the school’s varsity
track team, the Club Ultimate
frisee team and the Tisch
Scholars Group. He is responsible
for a project which
brings young poets from the
NY Slam scene to Maine to
work with middle school
students. His web page is
www.stern.nyu.edu/~mnm207
and he can be contacted at
his email address
mnm207@stern.nyu.edu.
The Twin Poets Al & Nnamdi gracing the Nuyorican stage

Syreeta McFadden
POETRY IN MOTION
Ingrid Rivera-Dessuit
Syreeta McFadden
Queen Godis
Syreeta McFadden is originally from America’s heartland and
planted her roots at the Nuyorican in January 1998. As serendipity
would have it, she regained her sight in the Summer of 1999 and
has been a part-time/serious photographer ever since. Her day job
consists of obfuscating public policy and pushing paper. Her
secret mission: to realize dreams deferred by creating affordable
housing opportunities in Harlem.
Steve Connell
Luis Chaluisen
Jennifer Murphy
Syreeta McFadden
Syreeta McFadden
Syreeta McFadden

Syreeta McFadden
Syreeta McFadden
Syreeta McFadden
Tongo
Morris Stegasaurus
Bassey Ipki
Tammy Carr
Al Letson
Michael Meyer
Syreeta McFadden

MORE MOTION & POETRY
Onome
Syreeta McFadden
Chai-Ti
Syreeta McFadden
reg E. gaines
Torie Sammartino
Clare Ultimo
Syreeta McFadden Syreeta McFadden
Steve Colman & Alix Olson
Andre Salaam
Michael Meyer
Faraji Salim
Michael Meyer
Syreeta McFadden
Syreeta McFadden

Michael Meyer
MEETFELICEBELLEnuyoricanSLAMMASTER
Felice Belle is Gemini and a Prince fan. Born and raised in Mount Vernon, NY, she currently
resides in Brooklyn. She is a graduate student at NYU’s Gallatin School of
Individualized Study and teaches poetry part-time to third and fifth graders at PS 165
in Flushing. A poet first and foremost, Felice has performed at the Apollo Theater, the
Henry Street Settlement, Rikers Island and various colleges and universities throughout
the United States. Her work has been published in the Columbia University-based
journal Roots and Culture and The Gallatin Review. She was a 1999 Grand Slam finalist
and the alternate for the slam team that represented the Cafe at the National Poetry
Slam in Chicago.
next lifetime
my mind is being fucked
with consistency
the rest of my body
is getting jealous
like your father
who refused to eat
tomatoes from the tree
your mother’s lover
planted in your backyard
we ate that fruit
religiously received
each bulb
(a sunset-red)
like communion bread
do this for the remembrance
of me
i do this
today there will be
no hand wavin
no foot stompin
no spirits being gotten
for the remembrance of me
i reincarnate myself
uptown
harlem
brown
black
man
with wisdom-colored curls
and creased face
say,
“hey, soldier. what’s going
on?”
my mouth smiled wide
“hi.”
‘cause mista
had skipped the
my chocolatequeensista jive
he saw war in my eyes
wanted to know what
i was fighting for
“just your everyday defensive”
i say
“bye.”
mouth twisted wry
flashed peace sign
decide i’m
reincarnating myself
today
shed dead socialized skin
hand-me-down habits
passed through generations
mothering men who’s
cords ain’t been cut yet
persecuted when
flashing inappropriate
amounts of leg
and/or intellect
respect
is an r&b top-forty hit
me and i’ll stay
because being bruised
beats being alone
well now,
i’m too grown to
play dumb
play dead
for no one
instead
play big boy games
for a taste of that male privilege
i hear so much about
still the odd woman out
thought i had my foot on base
thought i’d found a safe space
put on my poker face
the dealer called spades
said rules were meant to
change
with the game
and i’ve forgotten what i was
playing for
so i create imaginary playmates
who challenge me to
mold reality like
fluorescent colored play-doh
train myself up
in the way i should go
i put faith
in myself
so when i’m let down
i know who to blame
i talk to myself
when no one wants to hear
what i have to say
i talk to myself out loud
so you’re going to have to listen
anyway
today
didn’t have the energy
to reincarnate
needed
a hug,
your love,
a foot rub
(in that order)
perfection is a perception
that exists only in your head
all the saints i know are dead
that is a prerequisite for sainthood
good samaritans get greedy
sometimes superheroes get
needy
revolutionaries are not above
compromise
and jazz musicians must
rehearse
before they can improvise
i am starting over
now
is
my
next lifetime
i am searching for signs
still trying to find
the lesson in all this
–Felice Belle

NUYORICAN ORIGINALS Poetry is the full act
Photo: Michael Meyer
Over the past year we have attracted a whole new generation of poets
to our Slam livingroom. We have a new host on Friday nights, Felice Belle
and also for the Wednesday Night Slam Open, Celena Glenn. Part of the
mission of the Nuyorican is to be a teaching institution, and the best learning
is hands-on learning. We see these two young women stepping up to
the mic every week with a sense of being on-call. Their function is not only
to introduce the poets, but also to act as a guide for the audience each
evening. Being a host is not an easy task. Ten years ago when I started
the OpenRoom after the Friday Night Slam I had to be conscious enough
at one or two o’clock in the morning to make my banter relevant – to link
the poets and the room with my impressions of what was going on in the
world and not sound stupid or uniformed.
The experience teaches you to develop a critical awareness, it teaches
you poise, it trains the mind to be agile and quick enough to respond to
any comment - adverse or otherwise, and turn the moment to the advantage
of the entire evening. This is part of the excercise of being on the
Nuyorican stage as either poet or host. We look forward to the constant
unfolding of the talents for which Felice and Celena were chosen and
anticipate always the next crop of hosts and poets who will make the
Nuyorican their birthplace.
–Lois Griffith, Director of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe
and author of Among Others
“
of naming. Naming states
of mind. The rebellious,
the contentious, the
questioning personality
wins out. And poetry is
on the street burning it
up with visions of times
to be...”
– Miguel Algarin, Founder, Nuyorican Poets Cafe
from Nuyorican Poetry, An Anthology of Puerto Rican Words
and Feelings

REFLECTIONSONTRIBES-aGATHERING
BY STEVE CANNON, THE HECKLER&
THE BLIND GUY
“READ THE
GODDAMN
POEM!”
Thirty-five years ago, when folk singing was in,
everybody you ran into between the ages of twenty
and thirty had a guitar or mouth organ, if not
both. Blues was the key. And John Coltrane and
Eric Dolphy were tearing it up at the Village Gate
-- burning the house down. And if you walked
around Washington Square on a sunny Saturday
afternoon, you can bet your bottom dollar you
were sure to run into a poet who would stop you in
your tracks and make an offering of a poem. Big
Brown would be sitting around the water fountain
reciting verses for days, while his buddies would
pass a hat through the crowd. Things were happening,
and then like now. War broke out in Asia,
spread throughout the states, busted loose in
Africa and Latin America, and less than ten years
ago, the wall came down in Berlin. That changed
everything.
And when the blackout happened in '79, and
break dancin' and hip-hop got inside James
Brown's beat, ten years later the Nuyorican Poets
Café reopened its doors, and spoken word and
poetry was in like Flynn straight out of Chi-Town,
and everybody got down. And the young folks,
from fifteen to thirty, became outspoken.
Then, for truth, the house where I lived did
burn down, and it was out of that experience on
July 14, 1990 (Bastille Day) that Tribes was born.
First it started with a magazine, dedicated to
the arts from a diverse perspective, and Dora
Espinoza expanded it into Tribes Gallery. Then
came Fly By Night Press, which published books
of poetry. And the next thing I knew (sight
unseen), Tribes was booking readings at such
diverse places as the Gershwin Hotel, Avenue B
Social Club, here in its gallery on Sunday afternoons
and elsewhere. Before you knew it, it had
its own website to boot, available all around the
world.
And since I lost my eyesight, thank God, or whoever
you consider the creator, or all creation, folks
young and old alike came by and added their two
cents to make Tribes work.
And not unlike the Café, we've had some colorful
characters, artists of all backgrounds, to pass
through here at one time or another.
People like Tom Corn, who got thrown out of
Bullet Space and even stayed here for a while, and
helped to keep the place clean. People like Dora,
who brought in her crew, to make sure the art was
happening, and it's happening until this day.
Andthe likes of John Farris and his sidekick
Photo: Michael Meyer
Norman Douglas who come
around from time to time to talk
bad about the art and intimidate
the young poets.
And then of course, there's
Jenny Seymour, whose first love
is poetry, and is now an Arab
Scholar and on her way to Brazil.
She and John Payne came in with
the Northwest crew along with
Randall Hunting and Melanie
Best, among others.
When the Stoop Poetry
Workshop was born one late
October night on the stoop of
285 East Third Street, a whole list
of poets was screened and then
invited to participate. Colorful
folks like: Susan Scutti, who
would drink red wine and insult
everyone with ethnic curses, and
consequently got thrown out of
the café and Tribes, but turned
out to be one of the most interesting
short story writers around;
and of course, Reg E. Gaines and
Tracie Morris, who were constantly
bickering over poetry
ideology and art.
And before I turned around, in
spite of my lack of sight, poetry
was flourishing all over the
world, via the Internet; along
with the other arts, as the world
did a jigaboo and went boom
boom boom.•

WHAT THE POETS SAY
EVIL POETS
There are evil poets among us
And I know it’s not just in my mind
Petty poets
With piss poor performance
Please don’t waste our time
The Nuyorican crowd is wise
Evil poets are whom we despise
So don’t you look surprised
If the open mic list gets revised
Which means you won’t get your lyrical high
Just come next week and try
But for now Buh-Bye
Your ass is a fucking trip
Talking mad shit
Then giving a weak ass grip
But your worthless as a condom
With a big ass rip
Think nobody’s on to your game
I don’t even have to mention your name
And watch knowing poets nod
‘Cause they feel the same
It’s a damn shame
Turning the poetry scene into a fucking soap opera
Just like the Young & the Restless
Mothafuckas watcha
Scrutinizing not idolizing but realizing
That your petty
The shit is about to hit the fan
So I hope your ass is ready
I smelled the funk of evil poets
And this is where it led me
I’d mention your name if they’d let me
Don’t fuck with them come and get me
‘Cause lyrically I’m deadly
We didn’t fuck with you
You fucked with us
YO, there are evil poets among us
–Tammy Carr
WAIT
professional assassins of simple faith
will place two bullets behind
my right ear
silver i think
a concession to my vanity
the irony i have eluded
waiting this life for
I nail my palms
with my pen
to my desk
and confess all of my committed sins
I forgive myself and move
forward
like the book of Psalms
I read like parables
stories of the weight of the world
endured in both triumph and defeat
I lay my soul at your feet
and place my heart on the line
hoping that blind eyes will see
I am not a prophet
only the prophecy
of misery to come
unless you lend your understanding to me
I give my words to you
can you hear me
I have returned
and will continue
for this existence is merely a venue
that will succeed
or decease too close to its beginning
depending
on the loyalty of its consumers
wool coats wearing
false convictions
who quickly stray from the flock
of conscious conspirators
collaborating to reclaim
once conquered dynasties
deities living in the dark
not following the light
but the light from within
tempted not,
to follow the vessel
but paralleling
with its contents
on the eve of my demise
i sit here waiting
i am holding an ace high flush
tight against my chest
i want to cackle as if at the discovery
i have waited this life for
I am prophecy
I carry on my back
the corruption and deception
of an uncivilized society
denying me life
by containing me in ancient parables
rumored by a traitor of the same sun
and now the time has come
for the sheep to return to the field
but they cannot see
they do not listen
I passage for them
overburdened
struggling to keep pace
with the metronome
ticking internally
singing cadence songs of support
when in near ear
of other deliverers
listening to their songs
escalate the tempo of my own step
we dance
together we feel
I run
I am sinking into torment
because I see no inspiration
am I blind
or is there no light radiating
to keep me in rotation with the sky
I nail my soul
with my pen
to my desk and cry
can you hear me
–Celena Glenn
if they one or another
are waiting for a fold
they are at the end of their own discovery
and bitter
as tho it were there drawing
as tho i do not embrace the arrival

THEY’RE NOT MY HEROES
They’re not my friends, they’re my foes,
I’m telling you now, these idiots are not my heroes.
And as sure as strawberries make me sick,
You could never get me to uplift or worship a
baseball playing crack addict!
Not when my mother left Jamaica,
Came to America,
Worked for some racists as a domestic helper,
Four degrees below zero, dead of Winter,
They had her outside grilling burgers.
All because for her three kids she wanted to secure a better future.
So don’t even think about forgiving me if I’m wrong,
Daryl Strawberry ain’t did shit compared to my mom.
We left Jamaica dead broke!
In high school I had two pairs of pants and a used winter coat.
Middle America was on that, ‚”Immigrants are taking all our jobs!‚”
bullshit!
“Go back on your banana boat!‚” was the phrase of choice,
Negroes used when they dissed.
So for the longest, Dad was unemployed
Mom, underemployed
And summertime in school I was still rocking
those two pairs of corduroy.
Found the American dream to be a hoax,
And for my clothing, the kids in school had mad jokes.
It was like Def Comedy Jam when the class clown
assembled his boys,
But I knew from Jamaica that empty barrels made the most noise.
Food Stamp Name Brand Welfare Negroes, turned their nose
up, as if they were rich snobs,
I ignored it, by fifteen I was reading investment books
by Charles Schwab,
And just like you saw on “In Living Color”, I had three jobs.
While kids in my class were unwrapping gifts from under
the Christmas tree,
i girdle my heart with serpents
swearings of new arcana
codes for new vanities
codes for new assassins
i court death without a vow
render faith with genius
here on the eve of a ressurection
payment for undone affairs
– keith roach
I was reading, “How To Win Friends And Influence People‚”
by Dale Carnegie.
While cats blasted Eric B and Run DMC
I was listening to tapes of Earl Nightingale reinforcing,
“Persistence is the key.”
Doing paradigm shifts with my reality,
Fighting my insanity,
While simultaneously trying to escape from what was obviously
a dysfunctional family.
Picked up a pen and found escape through this poetry.
Where the average sucker saw obstacle, I saw opportunity,
And by eighteen I decided that working forty hours
Building someone else’s dream was not for me!
Took the road less traveled and found peace within,
While most of the food stamp name brand Negroes
Found lodging in the criminal system.
Telling me the “White Man” made them victims.
And how much America is their enemy,
But idiots always confuse bad management with destiny!
Girls that lived to put broke immigrants down
For the entire school year,
I now see them with three kids,
No baby father and a part time job as a cashier.
While immigrants that I knew who slept five to a bed
Went on to become aeronautical engineers.
My goals are written precisely and clear,
Most are already accomplished, the rest are near.
And I can recall that it wasn’t too long ago when I stepped off
Air Jamaica with damn near zero,
So call me Bruce Wayne or Clark Kent,
cause I’m my own goddamn hero!
– Kirk Nugent
It’s madness yo, sheer madness…!
The way a man won’t take a nine 2 five
‘Cause he doesn’t want 2 spend 8hrs on his feet
Yet he’s willing 2 spend 16hrs a day beggin’ in the street
Or how ‘bout the one who holds the door open at McDonalds
lookin’ 4 change
When 4 a change he could take his ass inside…and look 4 a job!
Don’t U think that shit’s insane?
Speaking of Micky D’s, what about those brotha’s that act
like it’s beneath them
2 work 4 minimum wage inside a kitchen
Dicing potatoes 4 fries, preparing burgers 4 flippin’
So they turn 2 crime
& when they get sent 2 prison…they’re at the head of the line
Trying 2 get work in the kitchen
Dicing potatoes 4 fries, preparing burgers 4 flippin’
Keepin’ everybody’s cup filled with water
‘Cause the kitchen pays 35 cents a day instead of a quarter!
It’s madness yo, sheer madness…!
–excerpted from MADNESS by Nathan P.

WHAT THE POETS SAY...
In the Temple
Before mine eyes had seen the gory
Gang rape of a little girl disowned
By her own for bringing the child
Of a holy war into this world
Before Father John fell on his knees
One silent night to pray
On that child defiled
Because he was afraid to disobey
I useta worship in the Temple
When I had never seen the scriptures
Encrypted in the leaves of trees
When I had never heard hymns
Hummed in harmony by a colony of bees
When I had never learned
That elders are angels
Sent to watch over me
I useta worship in the Temple
I useta sacrifice in the Sanctuary
But in my youth I got the gospel Truth
From a blade of grass
And witnessed the wisdom
Of the water running in my bath
And wind was my religion
Telling the future of my past
I useta worship in the Temple
I useta worship in the Temple
I useta recite psalms in the Synagogue
Until a woman who had a way with words
That made me want to do away with words
Performed her poetry on me
Without saying a single word
Strumming sonnets on the strings that sing
The song of my manhood
Strumming sonnets on the strings that sing
The song of my soul as good
As worshipping in the Temple
I useta worship in the Temple
I useta worship in the Temple
I useta sing suras in the Mosque
Where Karma couldn’t catch a cab
On the corner of the Cross
Unless she double-crossed Krishna
For 30 pieces of Shiva
And meditated with mantras under mangos
And contemplated Siddhartha under a Kangol
Cuz a Kangol looks like a halo on a Negro
Whenever we go out to eat angel hair pasta
Or sit beside a Rasta
Blasting reggae remixes of Rumi
Out his radio and translating Revelations
Back into Ebonics from Ibo
While chanting nam myoho renge kyo
Nam myoho renge kyo
Nam myoho renge kyo
Which is just ancient jive for-
Everything is everything
Cuz everything says so
And everything IS Everything
Cuz Everything says so
So holy water is no holier than water
in your well right now
And church bells are no holier than cowry
shells on the ground
And rosary beads are no holier than dime bags
of weed somehow
And yesterday and tomorrow are no holier
than NOW
Cuz now and then
Buddha be coming back in the newborn body
of a blue black baby
And St. Mary is blind, crippled, crazy,
and living out of a box like an
old bag lady
And Shango shoots up tornadoes to shoot the
breeze with Jesus Christ
And Persephone and Vodun menage-a-trois
with the Moon
as soon as you go to
bed at night
But I see
SKIES OF BLUE
Have you gotten the gospel Truth
From a blade of grass?
CLOUDS OF WHITE
And witnessed the wisdom
Of the water running in your bath?
BRIGHT BLESSED DAYS
And is wind your religion?
Telling the future of your past?
DARK SACRED NIGHTS
I useta worship in the Temple
And sacrifice in the Sanctuary
AND I THINK TO MYSELF
I useta worship in the Temple
And recite psalms in the Synagogue
WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD
I useta worship in the Temple
And sing suras in the Mosque
WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD
I useta worship in the Temple
I useta worship in the Temple
I useta worship in the Temple
I ustea worship in the Temple
Until I realized...
EVERYTHING AROUND ME IS GOD
–Bryonn Bain
What’sITALLabout?
ASLAMopinion
Nuyorican poets slam from September to May,
squaring off poet-to-poet and poem-to-poem, while digging
deep inside to find a common denominator that is shared
between themselves, the audience, and its governing body
of judges. Even if it is merely for just one moment in time,
or maybe just three minutes in the round, whichever comes
first. Is poet’s passion merely the win of the slam, or is it
deeper than that? Most Nuyorican poets will never make it
to the Grand Slam Finale or even the Nuyorican National
Team, but there is a much greater prize at stake. Nuyorican
poets simply want to be heard, loved, hated, understood,
misunderstood, stroked, fucked and fucked over. It’s a rite
of passage that has been set into motion by the Poetry
Gods themselves as a divine and most holy order for the
newest parish of prophets that have come forth; the Slam
Poets.
Last August, Chicago was the site for the Mothership landing.
The Tenth Annual National Poetry Slam Competition is
where it all started and all ended. The Nuyorican’s slam
season ended with a five-member national team that was
as eclectic as it was homogenous. With the Nuyorican Cafe
entering the 2000 Competition as the reigning National
Champions, the ability for the Nuyorican to repeat seemed
almost a given to most who looked at the abilities of the
1999 Nuyorican National Slam Team. A repeat was not in
the cards for the Nuyorican at the 1999 Nationals, but electrifying
slam performances by Nuyoricans were. But what’s
it all about? Was winning Paramount? The Nuyorican was
present for the Nationals because of desire and necessity.
The desire stems from the Cafe’s passion to participate in
the most diverse annual performance poetry event of the
year. The necessity is rooted within the continued involvement
of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe within the national Poetry
Slam movement since the birth of Slam. The destinies of
the Nuyorican and the art and sport of Slam Poetry are
intertwined, and will throughout the genre’s continued
growth, remain essential to its ultimate evolution…and
that what it’s all about. That’s what its all about indeed.
–Faraji Salim , Member of the 1999 Nuyorican
National Slam Team, Author & International
Spoken Word Recording Artist
dedication
born out of blackness
words became light
showed that shadows on walls
were thoughts
gesticulated
and articulated
into poems.
transplanted consciousness
on the unsuspecting audience.
words became rhythm.
words were the light -
in the darktruth
communicated.
it was in words that they found
their salvation and deliverance.
redemption songs
that ricocheted from
exposed brick
beaten back into the souls of
crowds.
they came back for more.
unable to stave off the hunger
for the real
they found out that
they were not just shadows on
the wall
but illuminated thoughts
taking the form into poet.
vessels in which
god anointed and angels
protected
to reflect visions of self
back into the minds of crowds
who hungered for more.
when poet stepped to the mic,
out of the blackness,
then illuminated
consciousness
into
words.
–Syreeta McFadden

THIS AD SPACE GRACIOUSLY DONATED TO THE CAFE BY DEBRA THOMPSON&JOHN BURGER, NUYORICAN LOVERS FOREVER.
All
the
poets
win
tonight.
Congratulations to the
Nuyorican Poets Cafe
Grand Slam Finalists!
No-Hair Productions Inc.• NY/Chicago/Paris
POETRY THEATER FILM&VIDEO HIPHOP MUSIC VISUALART
See us in
THE BEST OF NEW YORK
– APRIL 2000 ISSUE
SLAM OPEN: EVERY WEDS except first Weds. of the month, 9pm, $5; SIGN UP & SLAM!
POETRY SLAM EVERY FRIDAY NIGHT, 10pm, $5. Starts with Spotlight Poet.
Open Room (read your own poem) follows Slam.
FIFTH NIGHT FILM&VIDEO SERIES, EVERY TUESDAY, 7pm, $8.
ALL THAT: HipHop Poetry & Jazz Open Mic, EVERY FIRST WEDS, 9pm, $10 ($8 with flyer)
WORDS w. Bobbito: HipHop, Poetry&Jazz Open Mic, EVERY THIRD SAT, 10pm, $10
($8 with flyer)
NUYORICAN RULE: An evening of Comedy&Satire, EVERY FIRST WEDS OF THE MONTH.
7:30pm, $8.
LATIN JAZZ JAM with Chris Washburne’s SYOTOS BAND, EVERY THURS NIGHT. 10pm; $5.
BOBBY SANABRIA & Ascensión, EVERY LAST SUN OF THE MONTH. 8pm; $10.
LATIN JAZZ JAM
with Chris
Washburne’s
SYOTOS Band
EVERY THURS.
NIGHT, 10 PM
THE NUYORICAN 25th
ANNIVERSARY
CELEBRATION
happened on April 29, 2000 at
Washington Square Park sponsored
by Voices Around the Square.
Founder Miguel Algarin and his sister Irma at Washington
Square Park.
VOTED
BEST
SPOKEN WORD
VENUE1999
– NY PRESS
READER’S POLL
MAY 18- JUNE 25, 2000
Thursday thru Saturday at 7:30
Sundays at 4:00
TRAGEDY IN SOUTH CENTRAL A Musical
Book&Lyrics by Lanny Mitchell
Music by Robbie Brown
MAY 21 10pm, $10
AFROMANTRA–rhumba/salsa
featuring Pablo Gil
MAY 24 7pm, $7
A reading of THE LIFE OF VINNIE B. by
Martin Hanson
MAY 27
The MUSIC of ROB & THE BAND
236 East Third Street
(Bet.Avenues B&C)
INFO: 212.505.8183
Check out our website
for more info:
www.nuyorican.org

SENDIN’ OUT SOME LUV...
A Cafe favorite, Andre Martin.
Steve Donaldson, one of the New
Jersey Nuyorican Heroes.
Hugging Dot is a regular pastime at the Cafe.
Here she is with Felice Belle.
If you can guess who this man is, you will owe him
five dollars.
Big UP to Demetrius tha Poet &
www.deepwatersoulcafe.com
for keeping all in touch!
Another Dot Hug. This time it’s with
Clare Utlimo.
Syreeta McFadden
A Slammaster’s Hug...Felice & keith.
Jeff Feller (the Great)...you may catch him
keeping slam scores, reading his poetry, or
hosting the Open Mic when Juliet’s away.
Nuyorican Poet Melanie Goodreaux.
The wonderful Juliet Gomez, host of the Open Mic & the
bigggest stage in the world on Friday nights after the Slam. The one and only superhuman bartender in NYC, Pepe.
Two Nuyorican Originals: Lois and Indigo (who hasn’t
been around in a while, so where you been???)
Kobena, illustrator of the “Mikey” icon.
(What we have done without him??)
Pictures don’t do him justice: Rocky, the
talented man in the booth on Friday
nights.
Photos this page (except where
noted) by Clare Ultimo.

A Gathering of the Tribes
celebrates the 25th Anniversary
of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe.
Congratulations
to the Grand Slam Finalists!
285 East 3rd Street, 2nd Floor • New York City 10009
212-674-3728
www.tribes.org

ONE LAST POEM
El Reverendo
Pedro Pietri,
Poet, Author, Playwright,
Actor&Native New Yorker
born in Ponce, PR
Telephone Booth Number 507 Photo: Clare Ultimo
I will jump out the window
if that’s what it takes
to satisify you sexually,
but only if you live
in the basement
Pedro Pietri