As you can see, I found it a productive night. There was a big turnout at the Slam, and it was an actual slam, with judges and eliminations and the apparatus in whole. I've never actually seen that up to now - I've only been to the damp squibs so far - never one in which the powder, well-dried, burst with a proper detonation. The political angle definitely worked for 'em - they ought to find a cause for every event. Of course, that's a damned cynical approach to the matter (which you'll see if you look below), but it's also an honest truth. Politics worked.

I make for a terrible audience when the rage has me in its claws. I sat and wrote and paid far too little attention to the poets. Amy M. was excellent, although I was confused at first by her slight stature - she looks a lot like a middle school student. David was full of passionate intensity, if a little too full of his gendered identity for my tastes. Bob had a deft and humorous touch with his verse, and they were the only ones to really stay with me.

The slam reminded me, all in all, of the church of my youth, of readings of scripture, homilies, hymns, a benediction, and myself distracted with evolutions of counterargument against the subject of the sermon through the remainder of the service. Well, except for David. My mother's church was never Pentecostal or Gospel enough for me to ever get accustomed to that sort of full-throated testifying in tongues of devotion.