Poetry Slam

Written about a pretentious classmate.

Poetry Slam

Yeah,
late night in a coffee shop,
broke beatniks, bereted—black-clad—
bemoaning the beauty bereft banality

that is life.

Mmm.

There they sit,
improvising their poetry.
Sometimes free verse,
sometimes the reverse.

Oh they can make up rhymes
in no time
considering themselves…sublime
as Longinus,
in his most…philosophical mind.

Mmm.

Each one a coffee shop philosopher,
bending over his mug
to recite his Locke.

Locked,

yes, in an internal struggle—
an internal and eternal struggle
against the good
and the evil
of the universe,

knowing that there is no universal,
only the difference between extremes.

Each one a junior Derrida,
Derrida lite.

The ninety-nine cent,
tic-tac calorie
chicken sandwich
of philosophy.

Perhaps with a diet coke.

And maybe fries.

What is that?  A number two?

Now, each individual adheres to his school without question—
the glue of cookie cutter Cartesians,
"I think therefore I am.  I think."

Slowly swallowing silver-tongued, yet soft-spoken speeches
given centuries ago
by the likes of Aristotle:
men greater than they,

these Hot-Topic philosophers are packaged
for the faux-trendy
Starbucks culture.