This is re-damn-diculous.

There were 12 poets competing tonight; 10 who were at high-quality slam level. People from the Little Rock team showed-up, plus our normal slammers, and a few wild cards.

I took second place.

I am competing on Saturday at the Walton Arts Center. I get $100 just for showing up.

After the slam tonight, someone asked me if I had any merchandise.

Damn.

. . . And I feel guilty.

I have become a high-quality poetry slammer, but I can't get a job. I can't provide financial stability to my family. How dare I go slam and be so fucking good at it. You see, I care more about "us" (Heather and I) than "me." And this success means nothing to the "us" realm. Not to mention that if don't get a job, we will have to move-in with my parents outside Chicago, leaving behind the arts and slam scene that I love, and am making a name for myself in, down here, and go to the Chicago scene in which I won't even make a ripple. So what meaning does this slam success have right now? . . . ?

Thus the guilt.

But, Heather says to look at it this way: regardless of my internal priorities of meaning, if I DID have a job, my poetry slam success would, almost certainly, mean more to me than my work. Therefore, my writing and performance abilities (my success in this slam scene) are NOT robbed of meaning. I just need to be willing to let it make me happy!

Geez. Not only does my wife have a high Intelligence score, she has a high Wisdom score too.

And I feel better knowing that tomorrow I have two more jobs to apply-for and an actual interview at 2:00.

And about the merchandise thing, Heather and I are going to try and have a poetry chapbook ready by Saturday. She has some helpful resources at work;)


And I can't believe that Clayton Scott wasn't one of the four qualifiers, and yet a poet who has very poor performance skills (although I love him as a person and writer) WAS a winner. But that is the nature of the slam. Weird shit happens.

Oh! And Doug and I are going to be on a morning radio show at 8:00 a.m. Friday morning to plug Saturday's slam!
Yeah! That's right! 8 fucking A.M. and I am going to be on the RADIO! Performing something! Acting happy! . . . I want to die!
I've never been on the radio! And I do not function at that hour!
I know that I have to help the slam, and give it (and myself) more exposure (I mean for the love of hibatchi, it's $15 a ticket for two local bands and a poetry slam! People are more likely to avoid the thing!), but it feels like impending doom. I'll give a report Friday morning. I'll probably never work in this town again.


. . . Now, I need to get started on choosing poems and placing them in order, learning copyright laws, thinking of the title, and deciding how much to charge for a desktop published, cardstock-covered, saddle-stapled, little book.

I really hope someone will be praying on Saturday. I don't want to get psyched-out and suck.